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dre gedîgest." XI. THE WATCH FOR GRENDEL. Þâ him Hrôðgâr gewât mid his häleða gedryht, eodur Scyldinga ût of healle; 665 wolde wîg-fruma Wealhþeó sêcan, cwên tô gebeddan Häfde kyninga wuldor Grendle tô-geánes, swâ guman gefrungon, sele-weard âseted, sundor-nytte beheóld ymb aldor Dena, eoton weard âbeád; 670 hûru Geáta leód georne trûwode môdgan mägnes, metodes hyldo. Þâ he him of dyde îsern-byrnan, helm of hafelan, sealde his hyrsted sweord, îrena cyst ombiht-þegne, 675 and gehealdan hêt hilde-geatwe. Gespräc þâ se gôda gylp-worda sum Beówulf Geáta, ær he on bed stige: "Nô ic me an here-wæsmum hnâgran talige "gûð-geweorca, þonne Grendel hine; 680 "forþan ic hine sweorde swebban nelle, "aldre beneótan, þeáh ic eal mæge. "Nât he þâra gôda, þät he me on-geán sleá, "rand geheáwe, þeáh þe he rôf sîe "nîð-geweorca; ac wit on niht sculon 685 "secge ofersittan, gif he gesêcean dear "wîg ofer wæpen, and siððan witig god "on swâ hwäðere hond hâlig dryhten "mærðo dême, swâ him gemet þince." Hylde hine þâ heaðo-deór, hleór-bolster onfêng 690 eorles andwlitan; and hine ymb monig snellîc sæ-rinc sele-reste gebeáh. Nænig heora þôhte þät he þanon scolde eft eard-lufan æfre gesêcean, folc oððe freó-burh, þær he âfêded wäs, 695 ac hie häfdon gefrunen, þät hie ær tô fela micles in þäm wîn-sele wäl-deáð fornam, Denigea leóde. Ac him dryhten forgeaf wîg-spêda gewiofu, Wedera leódum frôfor and fultum, þät hie feónd heora 700 þurh ânes cräft ealle ofercômon, selfes mihtum: sôð is gecýðed, þät mihtig god manna cynnes weóld wîde-ferhð. Com on wanre niht scrîðan sceadu-genga. Sceótend swæfon, 705 þâ þät horn-reced healdan scoldon, ealle bûton ânum. Þät wäs yldum cûð, þät hie ne môste, þâ metod nolde, se syn-scaða under sceadu bregdan; ac he wäccende wrâðum on andan 710 bâd bolgen-môd beadwa geþinges. XII. GRENDEL'S RAID. Þâ com of môre under mist-hleoðum Grendel gongan, godes yrre bär. Mynte se mân-scaða manna cynnes sumne besyrwan in sele þam heán; 715 wôd under wolcnum, tô þäs þe he wîn-reced, gold-sele gumena, gearwost wisse fättum fâhne. Ne wäs þät forma sîð, þät he Hrôðgâres hâm gesôhte: næfre he on aldor-dagum ær ne siððan 720 heardran häle, heal-þegnas fand! Com þâ tô recede rinc sîðian dreámum bedæled. Duru sôna onarn fýr-bendum fäst, syððan he hire folmum hrân; onbräd þâ bealo-hydig, þâ he âbolgen wäs, 725 recedes mûðan. Raðe äfter þon on fâgne flôr feónd treddode, eode yrre-môd; him of eágum stôd lîge gelîcost leóht unfäger. Geseah he in recede rinca manige, 730 swefan sibbe-gedriht samod ätgädere, mago-rinca heáp: þâ his môd âhlôg, mynte þät he gedælde, ær þon däg cwôme, atol aglæca, ânra gehwylces lîf wið lîce, þâ him âlumpen wäs 735 wist-fylle wên. Ne wäs þät wyrd þâ gen, þät he mâ môste manna cynnes þicgean ofer þâ niht. Þrýð-swýð beheóld mæg Higelâces, hû se mân-scaða under fær-gripum gefaran wolde. 740 Ne þät se aglæca yldan þôhte, ac he gefêng hraðe forman siðe slæpendne rinc, slât unwearnum, bât bân-locan, blôd êdrum dranc, syn-snædum swealh: sôna häfde 745 unlyfigendes eal gefeormod fêt and folma. Forð neár ätstôp, nam þâ mid handa hige-þihtigne rinc on räste; ræhte ongeán feónd mid folme, he onfêng hraðe 750 inwit-þancum and wið earm gesät. Sôna þät onfunde fyrena hyrde, þät he ne mêtte middan-geardes eorðan sceáta on elran men mund-gripe mâran: he on môde wearð 755 forht on ferhðe, nô þý ær fram meahte; hyge wäs him hin-fûs, wolde on heolster fleón, sêcan deófla gedräg: ne wäs his drohtoð þær, swylce he on ealder-dagum ær gemêtte. Gemunde þâ se gôda mæg Higelâces 760 æfen-spræce, up-lang âstôd and him fäste wiðfêng. Fingras burston; eoten wäs ût-weard, eorl furður stôp. Mynte se mæra, þær he meahte swâ, wîdre gewindan and on weg þanon 765 fleón on fen-hopu; wiste his fingra geweald on grames grâpum. Þät wäs geócor sîð, þät se hearm-scaða tô Heorute âteáh: dryht-sele dynede, Denum eallum wearð, ceaster-bûendum, cênra gehwylcum, 770 eorlum ealu-scerwen. Yrre wæron begen, rêðe rên-weardas. Reced hlynsode; þâ wäs wundor micel, þät se wîn-sele wiðhäfde heaðo-deórum, þät he on hrusan ne feól, fäger fold-bold; ac he þäs fäste wäs 775 innan and ûtan îren-bendum searo-þoncum besmiðod. Þær fram sylle âbeág medu-benc monig mîne gefræge, golde geregnad, þær þâ graman wunnon; þäs ne wêndon ær witan Scyldinga, 780 þät hit â mid gemete manna ænig betlîc and bân-fâg tôbrecan meahte, listum tôlûcan, nymðe lîges fäðm swulge on swaðule. Swêg up âstâg niwe geneahhe; Norð-Denum stôd 785 atelîc egesa ânra gehwylcum þâra þe of wealle wôp gehýrdon, gryre-leóð galan godes andsacan, sige-leásne sang, sâr wânigean helle häftan. Heóld hine tô fäste 790 se þe manna wäs mägene strengest on þäm däge þysses lîfes. XIII. BEÓWULF TEARS OFF GRENDEL'S ARM. Nolde eorla hleó ænige þinga þone cwealm-cuman cwicne forlætan, ne his lîf-dagas leóda ænigum 795 nytte tealde. Þær genehost brägd eorl Beówulfes ealde lâfe, wolde freá-drihtnes feorh ealgian mæres þeódnes, þær hie meahton swâ; hie þät ne wiston, þâ hie gewin drugon, 800 heard-hicgende hilde-mecgas, and on healfa gehwone heáwan þôhton, sâwle sêcan, þät þone syn-scaðan ænig ofer eorðan îrenna cyst, gûð-billa nân grêtan nolde; 805 ac he sige-wæpnum forsworen häfde, ecga gehwylcre. Scolde his aldor-gedâl on þäm däge þysses lîfes earmlîc wurðan and se ellor-gâst on feónda geweald feor sîðian. 810 Þâ þät onfunde se þe fela æror môdes myrðe manna cynne fyrene gefremede (he wäs fâg wið god) þät him se lîc-homa læstan nolde, ac hine se môdega mæg Hygelâces 815 häfde be honda; wäs gehwäðer ôðrum lifigende lâð. Lîc-sâr gebâd atol äglæca, him on eaxle wearð syn-dolh sweotol, seonowe onsprungon burston bân-locan. Beówulfe wearð 820 gûð-hrêð gyfeðe; scolde Grendel þonan feorh-seóc fleón under fen-hleoðu, sêcean wyn-leás wîc; wiste þê geornor, þät his aldres wäs ende gegongen, dôgera däg-rîm. Denum eallum wearð 825 äfter þam wäl-ræse willa gelumpen. Häfde þâ gefælsod, se þe ær feorran com, snotor and swýð-ferhð sele Hrôðgâres, genered wið nîðe. Niht-weorce gefeh, ellen-mærðum; häfde Eást-Denum 830 Geát-mecga leód gilp gelæsted, swylce oncýððe ealle gebêtte, inwid-sorge, þe hie ær drugon and for þreá-nýdum þolian scoldon, torn unlytel. Þät wäs tâcen sweotol, 835 syððan hilde-deór hond âlegde, earm and eaxle (þær wäs eal geador Grendles grâpe) under geápne hrôf. XIV. THE JOY AT HEOROT. Þâ wäs on morgen mîne gefræge ymb þâ gif-healle gûð-rinc monig: 840 fêrdon folc-togan feorran and neán geond wîd-wegas wundor sceáwian, lâðes lâstas. Nô his lîf-gedâl sârlîc þûhte secga ænegum, þâra þe tîr-leáses trode sceáwode, 845 hû he wêrig-môd on weg þanon, nîða ofercumen, on nicera mere fæge and geflýmed feorh-lâstas bär. Þær wäs on blôde brim weallende, atol ýða geswing eal gemenged 850 hâtan heolfre, heoro-dreóre weól; deáð-fæge deóg, siððan dreáma leás in fen-freoðo feorh âlegde hæðene sâwle, þær him hel onfêng. Þanon eft gewiton eald-gesîðas, 855 swylce geong manig of gomen-wâðe, fram mere môdge, mearum rîdan, beornas on blancum. Þær wäs Beówulfes mærðo mæned; monig oft gecwäð, þätte sûð ne norð be sæm tweonum 860 ofer eormen-grund ôðer nænig under swegles begong sêlra nære rond-häbbendra, rîces wyrðra. Ne hie hûru wine-drihten wiht ne lôgon, glädne Hrôðgâr, ac þät wäs gôd cyning. 865 Hwîlum heaðo-rôfe hleápan lêton, on geflît faran fealwe mearas, þær him fold-wegas fägere þûhton, cystum cûðe; hwîlum cyninges þegn, guma gilp-hläden gidda gemyndig, 870 se þe eal-fela eald-gesegena worn gemunde, word ôðer fand sôðe gebunden: secg eft ongan sîð Beówulfes snyttrum styrian and on spêd wrecan spel gerâde, 875 wordum wrixlan, wel-hwylc gecwäð, þät he fram Sigemunde secgan hýrde, ellen-dædum, uncûðes fela, Wälsinges gewin, wîde sîðas, þâra þe gumena bearn gearwe ne wiston, 880 fæhðe and fyrene, bûton Fitela mid hine, þonne he swylces hwät secgan wolde eám his nefan, swâ hie â wæron ät nîða gehwâm nýd-gesteallan: häfdon eal-fela eotena cynnes 885 sweordum gesæged. Sigemunde gesprong äfter deáð-däge dôm unlýtel, syððan wîges heard wyrm âcwealde, hordes hyrde; he under hârne stân, äðelinges bearn, âna genêðde 890 frêcne dæde; ne wäs him Fitela mid. Hwäðre him gesælde, þät þät swurd þurhwôd wrätlîcne wyrm, þät hit on wealle ätstôd, dryhtlîc îren; draca morðre swealt. Häfde aglæca elne gegongen, 895 þät he beáh-hordes brûcan môste selfes dôme: sæ-bât gehlôd, bär on bearm scipes beorhte frätwa, Wälses eafera; wyrm hât gemealt. Se wäs wreccena wîde mærost 900 ofer wer-þeóde, wîgendra hleó ellen-dædum: he þäs âron þâh. Siððan Heremôdes hild sweðrode eafoð and ellen. He mid eotenum wearð on feónda geweald forð forlâcen, 905 snûde forsended. Hine sorh-wylmas lemede tô lange, he his leódum wearð, eallum äðelingum tô aldor-ceare; swylce oft bemearn ærran mælum swîð-ferhðes sîð snotor ceorl monig, 910 se þe him bealwa tô bôte gelýfde, þät þät þeódnes bearn geþeón scolde, fäder-äðelum onfôn, folc gehealdan, hord and hleó-burh, häleða rîce, êðel Scyldinga. He þær eallum wearð, 915 mæg Higelâces manna cynne, freóndum gefägra; hine fyren onwôd. Hwîlum flîtende fealwe stræte mearum mæton. Þâ wäs morgen-leóht scofen and scynded. Eode scealc monig 920 swîð-hicgende tô sele þam heán, searo-wundor seón, swylce self cyning, of brýd-bûre beáh-horda weard, tryddode tîr-fäst getrume micle, cystum gecýðed, and his cwên mid him 925 medo-stîg gemät mägða hôse. XV. HROTHGAR'S GRATULATION. Hrôðgâr maðelode (he tô healle geóng, stôd on stapole, geseah steápne hrôf golde fâhne and Grendles hond): "þisse ansýne al-wealdan þanc 930 "lungre gelimpe! Fela ic lâðes gebâd, "grynna ät Grendle: â mäg god wyrcan "wunder äfter wundre, wuldres hyrde! "Þät wäs ungeâra, þät ic ænigra me "weána ne wênde tô wîdan feore 935 "bôte gebîdan þonne blôde fâh "hûsa sêlest heoro-dreórig stôd; "weá wîd-scofen witena gehwylcne "þâra þe ne wêndon, þät hie wîde-ferhð "leóda land-geweorc lâðum beweredon 940 "scuccum and scinnum. Nu scealc hafað "þurh drihtnes miht dæd gefremede, "þe we ealle ær ne meahton "snyttrum besyrwan. Hwät! þät secgan mäg "efne swâ hwylc mägða, swâ þone magan cende 945 "äfter gum-cynnum, gyf heó gyt lyfað, "þät hyre eald-metod êste wære "bearn-gebyrdo. Nu ic Beówulf "þec, secg betsta, me for sunu wylle "freógan on ferhðe; heald forð tela 950 "niwe sibbe. Ne bið þe nænigra gâd "worolde wilna, þe ic geweald häbbe. "Ful-oft ic for lässan leán teohhode "hord-weorðunge hnâhran rince, "sæmran ät säcce. Þu þe self hafast 955 "dædum gefremed, þät þîn dôm lyfað "âwâ tô aldre. Alwalda þec "gôde forgylde, swâ he nu gyt dyde!" Beówulf maðelode, bearn Ecgþeówes: "We þät ellen-weorc êstum miclum, 960 "feohtan fremedon, frêcne genêðdon "eafoð uncûðes; ûðe ic swîðor, "þät þu hinc selfne geseón môste, "feónd on frätewum fyl-wêrigne! "Ic hine hrädlîce heardan clammum 965 "on wäl-bedde wrîðan þôhte, "þät he for mund-gripe mînum scolde "licgean lîf-bysig, bûtan his lîc swice; "ic hine ne mihte, þâ metod nolde, "ganges getwæman, nô ic him þäs georne ätfealh, 970 "feorh-genîðlan; wäs tô fore-mihtig "feónd on fêðe. Hwäðere he his folme forlêt "tô lîf-wraðe lâst weardian, "earm and eaxle; nô þær ænige swâ þeáh "feá-sceaft guma frôfre gebohte: 975 "nô þý leng leofað lâð-geteóna "synnum geswenced, ac hyne sâr hafað "in nýd-gripe nearwe befongen, "balwon bendum: þær âbîdan sceal "maga mâne fâh miclan dômes, 980 "hû him scîr metod scrîfan wille." Þâ wäs swîgra secg, sunu Ecglâfes, on gylp-spræce gûð-geweorca, siððan äðelingas eorles cräfte ofer heáhne hrôf hand sceáwedon, 985 feóndes fingras, foran æghwylc; wäs stêde nägla gehwylc, stýle gelîcost, hæðenes hand-sporu hilde-rinces egle unheóru; æg-hwylc gecwäð, þät him heardra nân hrînan wolde 990 îren ær-gôd, þät þäs ahlæcan blôdge beadu-folme onberan wolde. XVI. THE BANQUET AND THE GIFTS. Þâ wäs hâten hreðe Heort innan-weard folmum gefrätwod: fela þæra wäs wera and wîfa, þe þät wîn-reced, 995 gest-sele gyredon. Gold-fâg scinon web äfter wagum, wundor-sióna fela secga gehwylcum þâra þe on swylc starað Wäs þät beorhte bold tôbrocen swîðe eal inne-weard îren-bendum fäst, 1000 heorras tôhlidene; hrôf âna genäs ealles ansund, þâ se aglæca fyren-dædum fâg on fleám gewand, aldres or-wêna. Nô þät ýðe byð tô befleónne (fremme se þe wille!) 1005 ac gesacan sceal sâwl-berendra nýde genýdde niðða bearna grund-bûendra gearwe stôwe, þær his lîc-homa leger-bedde fäst swefeð äfter symle. Þâ wäs sæl and mæl, 1010 þät tô healle gang Healfdenes sunu; wolde self cyning symbel þicgan. Ne gefrägen ic þâ mægðe mâran weorode ymb hyra sinc-gyfan sêl gebæran. Bugon þâ tô bence blæd-âgende, 1015 fylle gefægon. Fägere geþægon medo-ful manig mâgas + þâra swîð-hicgende on sele þam heán, Hrôðgâr and Hrôðulf. Heorot innan wäs freóndum âfylled; nalles fâcen-stafas 1020 Þeód-Scyldingas þenden fremedon. Forgeaf þâ Beówulfe bearn Healfdenes segen gyldenne sigores tô leáne, hroden hilte-cumbor, helm and byrnan; mære mâððum-sweord manige gesâwon 1025 beforan beorn beran. Beówulf geþah ful on flette; nô he þære feoh-gyfte for sceótendum scamigan þorfte, ne gefrägn ic freóndlîcor feówer mâdmas golde gegyrede gum-manna fela 1030 in ealo-bence ôðrum gesellan. Ymb þäs helmes hrôf heáfod-beorge wîrum bewunden walan ûtan heóld, þät him fêla lâfe frêcne ne meahton scûr-heard sceððan, þonne scyld-freca 1035 ongeán gramum gangan scolde. Hêht þâ eorla hleó eahta mearas, fäted-hleóre, on flet teón in under eoderas; þâra ânum stôd sadol searwum fâh since gewurðad, 1040 þät wäs hilde-setl heáh-cyninges, þonne sweorda gelâc sunu Healfdenes efnan wolde; næfre on ôre läg wîd-cûðes wîg, þonne walu feóllon. And þâ Beówulfe bega gehwäðres 1045 eodor Ingwina onweald geteáh, wicga and wæpna; hêt hine wel brûcan. Swâ manlîce mære þeóden, hord-weard häleða heaðo-ræsas geald mearum and mâdmum, swâ hý næfre man lyhð, 1050 se þe secgan wile sôð äfter rihte. XVII. SONG OF HROTHGAR'S POET--THE LAY OF HNAEF AND HENGEST. Þâ gyt æghwylcum eorla drihten þâra þe mid Beówulfe brim-lâde teáh, on þære medu-bence mâððum gesealde, yrfe-lâfe, and þone ænne hêht 1055 golde forgyldan, þone þe Grendel ær mâne âcwealde, swâ he hyra mâ wolde, nefne him witig god wyrd forstôde and þäs mannes môd: metod eallum weóld gumena cynnes, swâ he nu git dêð; 1060 forþan bið andgit æghwær sêlest, ferhðes fore-þanc! fela sceal gebîdan leófes and lâðes, se þe longe her on þyssum win-dagum worolde brûceð. Þær wäs sang and swêg samod ätgädere 1065 fore Healfdenes hilde-wîsan, gomen-wudu grêted, gid oft wrecen, þonne heal-gamen Hrôðgâres scôp äfter medo-bence mænan scolde Finnes eaferum, þâ hie se fær begeat: 1070 "Häleð Healfdenes, Hnäf Scyldinga, "in Fr..es wäle feallan scolde. "Ne hûru Hildeburh hêrian þorfte "Eotena treówe: unsynnum wearð "beloren leófum ät þam lind-plegan 1075 "bearnum and brôðrum; hie on gebyrd hruron "gâre wunde; þät wäs geômuru ides. "Nalles hôlinga Hôces dôhtor "meotod-sceaft bemearn, syððan morgen com, "þâ heó under swegle geseón meahte 1080 "morðor-bealo mâga, þær heó ær mæste heóld "worolde wynne: wîg ealle fornam "Finnes þegnas, nemne feáum ânum, "þät he ne mehte on þäm meðel-stede "wîg Hengeste wiht gefeohtan, 1085 "ne þâ weá-lâfe wîge forþringan "þeódnes þegne; ac hig him geþingo budon, "þät hie him ôðer flet eal gerýmdon, "healle and heáh-setl, þät hie healfre geweald "wið Eotena bearn âgan môston, 1090 "and ät feoh-gyftum Folcwaldan sunu "dôgra gehwylce Dene weorðode, "Hengestes heáp hringum wenede, "efne swâ swîðe sinc-gestreónum "fättan goldes, swâ he Fresena cyn 1095 "on beór-sele byldan wolde. "Þâ hie getrûwedon on twâ healfa "fäste frioðu-wære; Fin Hengeste "elne unflitme âðum benemde, "þät he þâ weá-lâfe weotena dôme 1100 "ârum heolde, þät þær ænig mon "wordum ne worcum wære ne bræce, "ne þurh inwit-searo æfre gemænden, "þeáh hie hira beág-gyfan banan folgedon "þeóden-leáse, þâ him swâ geþearfod wäs: 1105 "gyf þonne Frysna hwylc frêcnan spræce "þäs morðor-hetes myndgiend wære, "þonne hit sweordes ecg syððan scolde. "Âð wäs geäfned and icge gold "âhäfen of horde. Here-Scyldinga 1110 "betst beado-rinca wäs on bæl gearu; "ät þäm âde wäs êð-gesýne
ven, visiting Mariemont in April 1904, remarked on it forcibly and at once, directly he saw Raymond--then a schoolboy; and innumerable small mental traits in the boy recalled to me my childhood's feelings. Even an absurd difficulty he had as a child in saying the hard letters--the hard G and K--was markedly reminiscent of my own similar difficulty. Another peculiarity which we shared in childhood was dislike of children's parties--indeed, in my own case, a party of any kind. I remember being truly miserable at a Christmas party at The Mount, Penkhull, where I have no doubt that every one was more than friendly,--though probably over-patronising, as people often are with children,--but where I determinedly abstained from supper, and went home hungry. Raymond's prominent instance was at the hospitable Liverpool house, "Greenbank," which the Rathbones annually delivered up to family festivities each Christmas afternoon and evening, being good enough to include us in their family group. On one such occasion Raymond, a very small boy, was found in the hall making a bee-line for the front door and home. I remember sympathising with him, from ancient memories, and taking him home, subsequently returning myself. At a later stage of boyhood I perceived that his ability and tastes were akin to mine, for we had the same passionate love of engineering and machinery; though in my case, having no opportunity of exercising it to any useful extent, it gradually turned into special aptitude for physical science. Raymond was never anything like as good at physics, nor had he the same enthusiasm for mathematics that I had, but he was better at engineering, was in many ways I consider stronger in character, and would have made, I expect, a first-rate engineer. His pertinacious ability in the mechanical and workshop direction was very marked. Nothing could have been further from his natural tastes and proclivities than to enter upon a military career; nothing but a sense of duty impelled him in that direction, which was quite foreign to family tradition, at least on my side. [Illustration: RAYMOND WHEN TWO YEARS OLD] He also excelled me in a keen sense of humour--not only appreciation, but achievement. The whole family could not but admire and enjoy the readiness with which he perceived at once the humorous side of everything; and he usually kept lively any gathering of which he was a unit. At school, indeed, his active wit rather interfered with the studies of himself and others, and in the supposed interests of his classmates it had to be more or less suppressed, but to the end he continued to be rather one of the wags of the school. Being so desperately busy all my life I failed to see as much as I should like either of him or of the other boys, but there was always an instinctive sympathy between us; and it is a relief to me to be unable to remember any, even a single, occasion on which I have been vexed with him. In all serious matters he was, as far as I could judge, one of the best youths I have ever known; and we all looked forward to a happy life for him and a brilliant career. His elder brothers highly valued his services in their Works. He got on admirably with the men; his mode of dealing with overbearing foremen at the Works, where he was for some years an apprentice, was testified to as masterly, and was much appreciated by his "mates"; and honestly I cannot bethink myself of any trait in his character which I would have had different--unless it be that he might have had a more thorough liking and aptitude for, and greater industry in, my own subject of physics. When the war broke out his mother and I were in Australia, and it was some time before we heard that he had considered it his duty to volunteer. He did so in September 1914, getting a commission in the Regular Army which was ante-dated to August; and he threw himself into military duties with the same ability and thoroughness as he had applied to more naturally congenial occupations. He went through a course of training at Great Crosby, near Liverpool, with the Regiment in which he was a Second Lieutenant, namely the 3rd South Lancashires, being attached to the 2nd when he went to the Front; his Company spent the winter in more active service on the south coast of the Firth of Forth and Edinburgh; and he gained his desired opportunity to go out to Flanders on 15 March 1915. Here he applied his engineering faculty to trench and shelter construction, in addition to ordinary military duties; and presently he became a machine-gun officer. How desperately welcome to the family his safe return would have been, at the end of the war, I need not say. He had a hard and strenuous time at the Front, and we all keenly desired to make it up to him by a course of home "spoiling." But it was too much to hope for--though I confess I did hope for it. He has entered another region of service now; and this we realise. For though in the first shock of bereavement the outlook of life felt irretrievably darkened, a perception of his continued usefulness has mercifully dawned upon us, and we know that his activity is not over. His bright ingenuity will lead to developments beyond what we could have anticipated; and we have clear hopes for the future. O. J. L. MARIEMONT, _September 30, 1915_. * * * * * A MOTHER'S LAMENT _Written on a scrap of paper, September 26, 1915_, "_To ease the pain and to try to get in touch_" Raymond, darling, you have gone from our world, and _oh_, to ease the pain. I want to know if you are happy, and that you _yourself_ are really talking to me and no sham. "No more letters from you, my own dear son, and I have loved them so. They are all there; we shall have them typed together into a sort of book. "Now we shall be parted until I join you there. I have not seen as much of you as I wanted on this earth, but I do love to think of the bits I have had of you, specially our journeys to and from Italy. I had you to myself then, and you were so dear. "I want to say, dear, how we recognise the glorious way in which you have done your duty, with a certain straight pressing on, never letting anyone see the effort, and with your fun and laughter playing round all the time, cheering and helping others. You know how your brothers and sisters feel your loss, and your poor father!" * * * * * The religious side of Raymond was hardly known to the family; but among his possessions at the Front was found a small pocket Bible called "The Palestine Pictorial Bible" (Pearl 24mo), Oxford University Press, in which a number of passages are marked; and on the fly-leaf, pencilled in his writing, is an index to these passages, which page I copy here:-- PAGE Ex. xxxiii. 14 63 St. John xiv. 689 Eph. ii. 749 Neh. i. 6, II 337 St. John xvi. 33 689 Rom. viii. 35 723 St. Matt. xi. 28 616 Ps. cxxiv. 8 415 Ps. xliii. 2 468 Deut. xxxiii. 27 151 Deut. xxxii. 43 150 Isa. li. 12 473 Isa. lii. 12 474 Jude 24 784 Ezra ix. 9 335 Isa. xii. 2 451 Isa. i. 18 445 Isa. xl. 31 467 Rev. vii. 14 788 Rev. xxi. 4 795 MIZPAH. Gen. xxxi. 49. R. L. 14/8/15 The following poem was kindly sent me by Canon Rawnsley, in acknowledgment of a Memorial Card:-- OUR ANGEL-HOST OF HELP IN MEMORY OF RAYMOND LODGE, WHO FELL IN FLANDERS, 14 SEPT. 1915 "_His strong young body is laid under some trees on the road from Ypres to Menin._" [From the Memorial Card sent to friends.] 'Twixt Ypres and Menin night and day The poplar trees in leaf of gold Were whispering either side the way Of sorrow manifold, --Of war that never should have been, Of war that still perforce must be, Till in what brotherhood can mean The nations all agree. But where they laid your gallant lad I heard no sorrow in the air, The boy who gave the best he had That others good might share. For golden leaf and gentle grass They too had offered of their best To banish grief from all who pass His hero's place of rest. There as I gazed, the guests of God, An angel host before mine eyes, Silent as if on air they trod Marched straight from Paradise. And one sprang forth to join the throng From where the grass was gold and green, His body seemed more lithe and strong Than it had ever been. I cried, "But why in bright array Of crowns and palms toward the north And those white trenches far away, Doth this great host go forth?" He answered, "Forth we go to fight To help all need where need there be, Sworn in for right against brute might Till Europe shall be free." H. D. RAWNSLEY EXTRACTS FROM PLATO'S DIALOGUE "MENEXENUS" BEING PART OF A SPEECH IN HONOUR OF THOSE WHO HAD DIED IN BATTLE FOR THEIR COUNTRY And I think that I ought now to repeat the message which your fathers, when they went out to battle, urged us to deliver to you who are their survivors, in case anything happened to them. I will tell you what I heard them say, and what, if they could, they would fain be saying now, judging from what they then said; but you must imagine that you hear it all from their lips. Thus they spoke:-- "Sons, the event proves that your fathers were brave men. For we, who might have continued to live, though without glory, choose a glorious death rather than bring reproach on you and your children, and rather than disgrace our fathers and all of our race who have gone before us, believing that for the man who brings shame on his own people life is not worth living, and that such an one is loved neither by men nor gods, either on earth or in the underworld when he is dead. "Some of us have fathers and mothers still living, and you must encourage them to bear their trouble, should it come, as lightly as may be; and do not join them in lamentations, for they will have no need of aught that would give their grief a keener edge. They will have pain enough from what has befallen them. Endeavour rather to soothe and heal their wound, reminding them that of all the boons they ever prayed for the greatest have been granted to them. For they did not pray that their sons should live for ever, but that they should be brave and of fair fame. Courage and honour are the best of all blessings, and while for a mortal man it can hardly be that everything in his own life will turn out as he would have it, their prayer for those two things has been heard. Moreover, if they bear their troubles bravely, it will be perceived that they are indeed fathers of brave sons, and that they themselves are like them.... So minded, _we_, at any rate, bid those dear to us to be; such we would have them be; and such we say we are now showing that we ourselves are, neither grieving overmuch nor fearing overmuch if we are to die in this battle. And we entreat our fathers and mothers to continue to be thus minded for the rest of their days, for we would have them know that it is not by bewailing and lamentation that they will please us best. If the dead have any knowledge of the living, they will give us no pleasure by breaking down under their trouble, or by bearing it with impatience.... For our lives will have had an end the most glorious of all that fall to the lot of man; it is therefore more fitting to do us honour than to lament us." _Stat sua cuique dies; breve et irreparabile tempus Omnibus est vitae: sed famam extendere factis, Hoc virtutis opus._ _Æn._ x. 467 [Footnote 1: Swinburne, _Super Flumina Babylonis_.] [Footnote 2: _Note by O. J. L._--A volume of poems by O. W. F. L. had been sent to Raymond by the author; and this came back with his kit, inscribed on the title page in a way which showed that it had been appreciated:-- "Received at Wisques (Machine-Gun School), near St. Omer, France--_12th July 1915_. Taken to camp near Poperinghe--_13th July_. To huts near Dickebusch--_21st July_. To first-line trenches near St. Eloi, in front of 'The Mound of Death'--_24th July_."] CHAPTER II LETTERS FROM THE FRONT I shall now, for reasons explained in the Preface, quote extracts from letters which Raymond wrote to members of his family during the time he was serving in Flanders. A short note made by me the day after he first started for the Front may serve as a preliminary statement of fact:-- _Mariemont, Edgbaston, 16 March 1915_ Raymond was recently transferred back from Edinburgh to Great Crosby near Liverpool; and once more began life in tents or temporary sheds. Yesterday morning, Monday the 15th March, one of the subalterns was ordered to the Front; he went to a doctor, who refused to pass him, owing to some temporary indisposition. Raymond was then asked if he was fit: he replied, Perfectly. So at 10 a.m. he was told to start for France that night. Accordingly he packed up; and at 3.00 we at Mariemont received a telegram from him asking to be met at 5 p.m., and saying he could spend six hours at home. His mother unfortunately was in London, and for many hours was inaccessible. At last some of the telegrams reached her, at 7 p.m., and she came by the first available (slow) train from Paddington, getting here at 11. Raymond took the midnight train to Euston; Alec, Lionel, and Noël accompanying him. They would reach Euston at 3.50 a.m. and have two hours to wait, when he was to meet a Captain [Capt. Taylor], and start from Waterloo for Southampton. The boys intended to see him off at Waterloo, and then return home to their war-business as quickly as they could. He seems quite well; but naturally it has been rather a strain for the family: as the same sort of thing has been for so many other families. O. J. L. First comes a letter written on his way to the Front after leaving Southampton. _"Hotel Dervaux, 75 Grande Rue, Boulogne-s/Mer, Wednesday, 24 March 1915, 11.30 a.m._ "Following on my recent despatch, I have the honour to report that we have got stuck here on our way to the Front. Not stuck exactly, but they have shunted us into a siding which we reached about 8 a.m., and we are free until 2.30 p.m. when we have to telephone for further orders to find out where we are to join our train. I don't know whether this is the regular way to the Front from Rouen. I don't think it is, I fancy the more direct way must be reserved for urgent supplies and wounded. "My servant has been invaluable _en route_ and he has caused us a great deal of amusement. He hunted round at the goods station at Rouen (whence we started) and found a large circular tin. He pierced this all over to form a brazier and attached a wire handle. As soon as we got going he lit this, having filled it with coal purloined from somewhere, and when we stopped by the wayside about 10 or 11 p.m. he supplied my compartment (four officers) with fine hot tea. He had previously purchased some condensed milk. He also saw to it that a large share of the rations, provided by the authorities before we left, fell to our share, and looked after us and our baggage in the most splendid way. "He insists on treating the train as a tram. As soon as it slows down to four miles an hour, he is down on the permanent way gathering firewood or visiting some railway hut in search of plunder. He rides with a number of other servants in the baggage waggon, and as they had no light he nipped out at a small station and stole one of the railway men's lamps. However, there was a good deal of fuss, and the owner came and indignantly recovered it. "As soon as we stop anywhere, he lowers out of his van the glowing brazier. He keeps it burning in the van! I wonder the railway authorities don't object. If they do, of course he pretends not to understand any French. "He often gets left behind on the line, and has to scramble into our carriage, where he regales us with his life history until the next stop, when he returns to his own van. "Altogether he is a very rough customer and wants a lot of watching--all the same he makes an excellent servant." LETTERS FROM THE FRONT IN FLANDERS "_Friday, 26 March 1915_ "I arrived here yesterday about 5 p.m., and found the Battalion resting from the trenches. We all return there on Sunday evening. "I got a splendid reception from my friends here, and they have managed to get me into an excellent Company, all the officers of which are my friends. This place is very muddy, but better than it was, I understand. We are in tents." "_Saturday, 27 March 1915, 4.30 p.m._ "We moved from our camp into billets last night and are now in a farm-house. The natives still live here, and we (five officers) have a room to ourselves, and our five servants and our cook live and cook for us in the kitchen. The men of our Company are quartered in neighbouring farm buildings, and other Companies farther down the road. We are within a mile of a village and about three or four miles to the southward of a fair-sized and well-known town. The weather is steadily improving and the mud is drying up--though I haven't seen what the trenches are like yet.... "I am now permanently attached to C Company and am devoutly thankful. Captain T. is in command and the subalterns are Laws, Fletcher, and Thomas, all old friends of mine. F. was the man whose room I shared at Edinburgh and over whose bed I fixed the picture.... "We went on a 'fatigue' job to-day--just our Company--and were wrongly directed and so went too far and got right in view of the enemy's big guns. However, we cleared out very quickly when we discovered our error, and had got back on to the main road again when a couple of shells burst apparently fairly near where we had been. There were a couple of hostile aeroplanes about too.... Thank you very much for your letter wondering where I am. 'Very pressing are the Germans,' a buried city." [This of course privately signified to the family that he was at Ypres.] "_1 April 1915, 1.15 p.m._ "We dug trenches by night on Monday and Wednesday, and although we were only about 300 to 500 yards from the enemy we had a most peaceful time, only a very few stray bullets whistling over from time to time." "_Saturday, 3 April 1915, 7 p.m._ "I am having quite a nice time in the trenches. I am writing this in my dug-out by candle-light; this afternoon I had a welcome shave. Shaving and washing is usually dispensed with during our spell of duty (even by the Colonel), but if I left it six days I should burst my razor I think. I have got my little 'Primus' with me and it is very useful indeed as a standby, although we do all our main cooking on a charcoal brazier.... "I will look out for the great sunrise to-morrow morning and am wishing you all a jolly good Easter: I shan't have at all a bad one. It is very like Robinson Crusoe--we treasure up our water supply most carefully (it is brought up in stone jars), and we have excellent meals off limited and simple rations, by the exercise of a little native cunning on the part of our servants, especially mine." "_Bank Holiday, 5 April 1915, 4.30 p.m._ "The trenches are only approached and relieved at night-time, and even here we are not allowed to stir from the house by day on any pretext whatever, and no fires are allowed on account of the smoke. (Fires are started within doors when darkness falls and we have a hot meal then and again in the early morning--that is the rule--however, we do get a fire in the day by using charcoal only and lighting up from a candle to one piece and from that one piece to the rest, by blowing; also I have my Primus stove.)... We are still within rifle-fire range here, but of course it is all unaimed fire from the intermittent conflict going on at the firing line.... "I have a straw bed covered with my tarpaulin sheet--(it is useful although I have also the regular military rubber ground sheet as well)--and my invaluable air-pillow. I am of course travelling light and have to carry everything in my 'pack' until I get back to my valise and'rest billets,' so I sleep in my clothes. Simply take off my boots and puttees, put my feet in a nice clean sack, take off my coat and cover myself up with my British Warm coat (put on sideways so as to use its great width to the full). Like this I sleep like a top and am absolutely comfortable." "I have been making up an Acrostic for you all to guess--here it is: LIGHTS. My first is speechless, and a bell Has often the complaint as well. Three letters promising to pay, Each letter for a word does stay. There's nothing gross about this act;-- A gentle kiss involving tact. A General less his final 'k,' A hen would have no more to say. Our Neenie who is going west Her proper name will serve you best. WHOLE. My whole, though in a foreign tongue, Is Richard's name when he is young. The rest is just a shrub or tree With spelling 'Made in Germany.' "That's the lot. The word has ten letters and is divided into two halves for the purpose of the Acrostic. * * * * * "My room-mate has changed for to-night, and I have got Wyatt, who has just come in covered in mud, after four days in the trenches. He is machine-gun officer, and works very hard. I am so glad to have him. "By the way the support-trenches aren't half bad. I didn't want to leave them, but it's all right here too." "_Thursday, 8 April 1915_ "Here I am back again in 'Rest Billets,' for six days' rest. When I set off for the six days' duty I was ardently looking forward to this moment, but there is not much difference; here we 'pig' it pretty comfortably in a house, and there we 'pig' it almost as comfortably in a 'dug-out.' There we are exposed to rifle fire, nearly all unaimed, and here we are exposed to shell fire--aimed, but from about five miles away. "On the whole this is the better, because there is more room to move about, more freedom for exercise, and there is less mud. But you will understand how much conditions in the trenches have improved if comparison is possible at all. "My platoon (No. 11) has been very fortunate; we have had no casualties at all in the last six days. The nearest thing to one was yesterday when we were in the firing trench, and a man got a bullet through his cap quite close to his head. He was peeping over the top, a thing they are all told not to do in the daytime. The trenches at our point are about a hundred yards apart, and it is really safe to look over if you don't do it too often, but it is unnecessary, as we had a periscope and a few loopholes.... "I am awfully grateful for all the things that have been sent, and are being sent.... I will attach a list of wants at the end of this letter. I am very insatiable (that's not quite the word I wanted), but I am going on the principle that you and the rest of the family are only waiting to gratify my every whim! So, if I think of a thing I ask for it.... "By the way we have changed our billets here. Our last ones have been shelled while we were away--a prodigious hole through the roof wrecking the kitchen, but not touching our little room at the back. However, it is not safe enough for habitation and the natives even have left! "Things are awfully quiet here. We thought at first that it was 'fishy' and something was preparing, but I don't think so now. It is possibly the principle of 'live and let live.' In the trenches if we don't stir them up with shots they leave us pretty well alone. Of course we are ready for anything all the same. "Yes, we see the daily papers here as often as we want to (the day's before). Personally, and I think my view is shared by all the other officers, I would rather read a romance, or anything not connected with this war, than a daily paper.... "Was the Easter sunrise a success? It wasn't here. Cloudy and dull was how I should describe it. Fair to fine generally, some rain (the latter not to be taken in the American sense). "I wonder if you got my Acrostic [see previous letter] and whether anybody guessed it; it was meant to be very easy, but perhaps acrostics are no longer the fashion and are somewhat boring. I always think they are more fun to make than to undo. The solution is a household word here, because it is only a half-mile or so away, and provides most things." [The family had soon guessed the Acrostic, giving the place as Dickebusch. The "lights" are-- D um B I o U Cares S K lu Ck E dit H.] [_To a Brother_] "_Billets, Tuesday, 13 April 1915_ "We are all right here except for the shells. When I arrived I found every one suffering from nerves and unwilling to talk about shells at all. And now I understand why. The other day a shrapnel burst near our billet and a piece of the case caught one of our servants (Mr. Laws's) on the leg and hand. He lost the fingers of his right hand, and I have been trying to forget the mess it made of his right leg--ever since. He will have had it amputated by now. "They make you feel awfully shaky, and when one comes over it is surprising the pace at which every one gets down into any ditch or hole near. "One large shell landed right on the field where the men were playing football on Sunday evening. They all fell flat, and all, I'm thankful to say, escaped injury, though a few were within a yard or so of the hole. The other subalterns of the Company and I were (_mirabile dictu_) in church at the time. "I wonder if you can get hold of some morphia tablets [for wounded men]. I think injection is too complicated, but I understand there are tablets that can merely be placed in the mouth to relieve pain. They might prove very useful in the trenches, because if a man is hit in the morning he will usually have to wait till dark to be removed. "My revolver has arrived this morning." "_Sunday, 18 April 1915_ "I came out of the trenches on Friday night. It was raining, so the surface of the ground was very slippery; and it was the darkest night I can remember. There was a good deal of 'liveliness' too, shots were flying around more than usual. There were about a hundred of us in our party, two platoons (Fletcher's and mine) which had been in the fire trenches, though I was only with them for one day, Thursday night till Friday night. Captain Taylor was in front, then Fletcher's platoon, then Fletcher, then my platoon, then me bringing up the rear. We always travel in single file, because there are so many obstacles to negotiate--plank bridges and 'Johnson' holes being the chief. "Picture us then shuffling our way across the fields behind the trenches at about one mile an hour--with frequent stops while those in front negotiate some obstacle (during these stops we crouch down to try and miss most of the bullets!). Every few minutes a 'Very' light will go up and then the whole line 'freezes' and remains absolutely stationary in its tracks till the light is over. A 'Very' light is an 'asteroid.' (Noël will explain that.) It is fired either by means of a rocket (in the German case) or of a special pistol called a 'Very' pistol after the inventor (in our case). The light is not of magnesium brightness, but is just a bright star light with a little parachute attached, so that it falls slowly through the air. The light lasts about five seconds. These things are being shot up at short intervals all night long. Sometimes dozens are in the air together, especially if an attack is on. "Well, to go back to Friday night:--it took us a very long time to get back, and at one point it was hard to believe that they hadn't seen us. Lights went up and almost a volley whistled over us. We all got right down and waited for a bit. Really we were much too far off for them to see us, but we were on rather an exposed bit of ground, and they very likely fix a few rifles on to that part in the daytime and 'poop' them off at night. That is a favourite plan of theirs, and works very well. "We did get here in the end, and had no casualties, though we had had one just before leaving the trench. A man called Raymond (in my platoon) got shot through the left forearm. He was firing over the parapet and had been sniping snipers (firing at their flashes). Rather a nasty wound through an artery. They applied a tourniquet and managed to stop the bleeding, but he was so weak from loss of blood he had to be carried back on a stretcher. "I had noticed this man before, partly on account of his name. Last time I was in the fire trenches (about ten days ago) I was dozing in my dug-out one evening and the Sergeant-Major was in his, next door. Suddenly he calls out 'Raymond!' I started. Then he calls again 'Raymond! Come here!' I shouted out 'Hallo! What's the matter?' But then I heard the other Raymond answering, so I guessed how it was.... "While at tea in the next room the post came and brought me your letter and one from Alec. Isn't it perfectly marvellous? You were surprised at the speed of my last letter. But how about yours? The postmark is 2.30 p.m. on the 16th at Birmingham, and here it is in my hands at 4 p.m. on the 18th! "I was telling you about the difficulties of going to and fro between here and the trenches, but you will understand it is not always like that. If there is a moon, or even if there is a clear sky so that we can get the benefit of the starlight (which is considerable and much more than I thought), matters are much improved, because if you can still see the man in front, when he is, say, 5 yards in front of you, and can also see the holes instead of finding them with your person, all that 'waiting for the "tail" to close up' is done away with.... "Last night Laws, Thomas, and myself each took a party of about forty-five down separately, leaving the remainder guarding the various billets. Then when we returned Fletcher took the rest down. "It was a glorious night, starry, with a very young and inexperienced moon, and quite dry and warm. I would not have minded going down again except that I would rather go to bed, which I did. "Do you know that joke in _Punch_ where the Aunt says: 'Send me a postcard when you are safely in the trenches!'? Well, there is a great deal of truth in that--one feels quite safe when one reaches the friendly shelter of the trench, though of course the approaches aren't really very dangerous. One is 'thrilled' by the whistle of the bullets near you. That describes the feeling best, I think--it is a kind of excitement." "_Thursday, 22 April 1915, 6.50 p.m._ "I have received a most grand periscope packed, with spare mirrors, in a canvas haversack. It is a glorious one and
themselves for her sake affords me a sort of secret satisfaction. I give her whims _carte-blanche_, whether she builds artistic ruins in the park, or gallops over the meadows by night, or swims in the river in the moonlight, or when the sun is shining shuts the shutters and lies in bed by lamplight till evening, it is all the same to me. She may do exactly as she likes, and the breath of gossip dare not touch her, for she is my wife. I regard her as some beautiful exotic, which has been committed to my care, the strange loveliness of which must be worshipped unconditionally, even if its nature and the laws of its growth are not understood; but how absurd to chatter on about her thus! You know her." "Yes, I know her," Leo made answer, grimly. Something in his tone excited Ulrich's suspicion. "Do you mean to imply that you don't agree with me?" "I--I imply nothing." "Please, I would much rather you spoke out." "Well, then, if I must speak out, I would say that, in spite of all the hard discipline with which you have schooled yourself, you remain as rank and romantic a sentimentalist as ever. For proof that you always were one, take the Isle of Friendship. Ah, by-the-by, does it still exist, our Isle of Friendship?" "The stream has not swept it away. It stands firm and steadfast, like us two," Ulrich said with a seraphic smile. "Ah, that is capital! Steadfast as we are. But now, if you please, just recall how you asked of your old godfather, as a present for your confirmation, to be allowed to build a Pagan temple on the island, with we two as Castor and Pollux inside, and think of all the mock sacrifices and solemn ceremonies, and such-like mummery." "Childish follies, reminiscences of my Homeric readings." Ulrich interposed. "Yes, but why did these sort of ideas never occur to me? Simply because I am a plain, happy-go-lucky, country squire, whose imagination has never of necessity been stretched to conceive of anything beyond a fiery horse, women, and wine. But you... well, the temple speaks volumes.... You have a knack of converting those you care for into ideal beings, who exist absolutely only in your fancy." "Do you mean to say that I overrate Felicitas?" "When will you have done with your inquisitorial 'Do you mean to say?' Remember that I am not a poacher. But to return to Felicitas. You know that I knew her when she was in pinafores. Quite apart from the fact that she was often at Halewitz, being a distant cousin to me, at one time--once I was devilish fond of her. But I never regarded her in the light of what you call a rare exotic bloom. Either I hadn't a sufficiently discerning eye, or, blockhead that I am, I know women better than you with your sevenfold wisdom." Ulrich fixed his eyes steadily on the floor. Leo, after he had looked at him with a shyly inquiring glance, took heart and blurted out, "Man, tell me this. Why on earth were you so mad as to make her your wife?" Ulrich shrank and cowered under the direct blow. "I fail to understand you, Leo," he said, on the defensive; and Leo saw with some alarm that he had gone too far. "I mean after... what had happened," he explained, scarcely audibly. "And what had happened? Because her husband fell by your hand in honourable combat, was I to be prevented from winning her? True friends that we are, we are not quite identical. If I had not always felt sure that I had acted according to your principles, I might almost say in your interest!" Leo laughed loud. "Good heavens! in mine?" he exclaimed, interrupting him. "Yes, certainly, and I will tell you why. You remember that memorable evening when you came tearing to my place and said to me, 'Rhaden has sought a dispute with me at cards, and I have been obliged to challenge him. You must be my second, of course.' Now, do you also recollect what I asked you at the same time?" Leo gazed at him blankly. "I remember," he murmured. "I said, 'This wrangle might easily be only a blind. The country rings with all sorts of scandal. You know that I would not lend myself to perpetrate a wrong, and so I ask you solemnly, as our friendship is sacred, does any tie exist between you and Felicitas, forbidden by laws human and divine?' You answered, 'No,' and I was satisfied, because the idea of either of us lying to each other would be too absurd. Is it not so?" "Yes, it would have been absurd," repeated Leo, and pressed his lips together. "There was nothing wonderful in the fact that one of the duellists should fall at the hands of the other, no matter how paltry the cause of quarrel. We all knew Rhaden's vindictive nature. I don't deny that you wished to spare him, but you got heated, and as luck would have it your third bullet took a fatal direction. The thing happened, and we had to take the consequences. It was quite right of you to go away for a time out of reach of the women's cackle, and whether you were equally wise, after your period of detention in a fortress was over, to go so far abroad and let nothing be heard of you for six months, is to my mind doubtful, for it simply opened one door of conjecture after the other to the gossips and slanderers." He stopped, and damped his projecting lips on the edge of his wine-glass. His cheeks burned, and the thin transparent face seemed illumined by an inward fire. But he continued in the same strain of merciless, matter-of-fact calm. "You will probably not have forgotten anything that passed at our last meeting? You had just received sentence--two years--a round sum, as you expressed it, half of which, thank God, you were let off. You wanted to give yourself up that same evening. We were sitting over our wine celebrating a separation, as to-day we celebrate our reunion. That is four and a half years ago, and meanwhile many things have changed. You handed over to me the necessary papers, and made me the trustee of your property. Unfortunately, without strictly stipulating that I should have complete authority in your absence. But more of that hereafter. Next you said distinctly, 'I have yet another favour to ask of you. You know that through me Felicitas is placed in an unpleasant position. Naturally it would not be possible for me to venture in her neighbourhood, even if I were to be soon set at liberty, and as the question "What will become of her?" is much on my mind, I beg you with all my heart to protect her... stand by her, and see that no breath of the hateful calumny crosses her threshold.' Is that correct?" "Correct! Yes, yes," Leo said irritably, and stabbed at the remains of the fowl, which lay in cold congealed gravy. "And what did I ask you then?" "Don't know. It doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter; only make haste and have done." "I asked you," Ulrich went on unperturbed, "'Do you bear any old love towards her in your heart?' and you replied, 'I did, but it is all past now.' And I asked you further, 'Then is she free?' and you said, 'As far as I am concerned, she is.'" "But, man, how could I suspect that you yourself----" "Does that alter the case? Was she less free on that account?" "Get out with your judicial hair-splitting. You have spoilt my appetite," said Leo, laying down his fork. "Forgive me, dear old boy," Ulrich responded; "but I can't spare you this explanation, lest you should end by reproaching me with having thrown dust in your eyes, and having made a breach between us by my marriage." "It seems to me that is what it will amount to, as it is," Leo growled, looking gloomily before him. "What! you say that?" Ulrich stammered, as if he could scarcely believe his ears. "Perhaps you will give me your views as to how our relations are to continue." "My view is, that if at heart all is the same as of old, the ways and means of continuing our intercourse need concern us least." "That is excellent, quite excellent, and only what one would expect from a man of ideal sentiment. But it is just as it always was; your knowledge of life deserts you wherever love and friendship and fine feeling come in. A woman, old fellow, stands between us now. And do you imagine for a moment that this woman could bring herself to forget what has happened sufficiently to tolerate calmly my coming and going at Uhlenfelde? And even if she were willing, how could I consent to it? Remember there's a boy running about your house--you are fond of him, eh?" A melancholy gleam of acquired parental pride fluttered over Ulrich's face. "I am very fond of him," he said softly. "When I knew him he was quite a little chap, four years old at most. He often sat on my knee. He was lovable, that much I know about him. But what is the good of recalling it? The boy has the features of the man whom I once saw, through the smoke of my pistol, fall to the ground with a bullet in his side. Isn't that enough?" Ulrich breathed heavily and stared at him. "And now I tell you, once for all," Leo continued, raising his voice, "that if you had asked the advice, which would only have been fitting before taking so grave a step, of your stupid old comrade Leo Sellenthin at the time you resolved to plunge into this marriage, prompted either by mad generosity or an equally mad passion, he would have answered you clear and straight, as is his way, 'Choose between her and me.' There!" Ulrich grew a shade paler, and his left hand clasped the sofa-corner convulsively. He rose slowly, saying in a voice which anxiety at the thought of his friend breaking with him completely altered-- "Leo, you know that I cling to you as to a part of my own body. But I will know the truth. Are you trying to bring about a rupture? If so, say so." A peal of laughter came from Leo. "Ah, now I have caught it, as usual," he cried. "All our life long we have had these scenes. When we were fourth-form boys--well, you know what it used to be. Once when I tore myself from you because I got bored with philosophising in your company about the good of humanity, and preferred to lie under the garden hedge with Rupp and Sydow to bombard the pretty girls as they went by with paper pellets, then I got a note--'You are insincere... a traitor... I will do away with myself.'... Ay, the devil take your confounded heroics." He stood up and soothed his friend, who sank back again on the sofa-cushions, and caressed comically his bristly hair. "There, there, little girlie," he laughed. "So long as you live you won't get rid of me, good for nothing that I am. Who would nurse you and stroke your head when the white mice bother you? and who would preach morality to me and cram worn-out wisdom into me when I got into scrapes, if----" He stopped suddenly and cast a side-long glance at the keyhole; then seized an empty bottle and hurled it with a kind of war-whoop at the hinges of the door, so that it smashed to pieces in contact with the iron. Ulrich sprang up in horror. "What has happened?" he asked. "Nothing much," Leo explained, perfectly calm again. "Only a worm of a head waiter was sneaking around, probably to listen to us, so I tried to give him his death-blow." Ulrich looked at him in bewilderment. "You think I have roughened somewhat out there amongst savages, eh?" Leo asked, with a good-natured laugh. "But never mind, I have come back to you sound and whole. A fellow who has sifted and proved himself, so that at this moment he doubts whether in the whole of God's earthly garden there grows a finer specimen than his lowly self. Sometimes when I have had to go six months without anything to eat, I have been able to subsist on my self-satisfaction, as the bear sucks its paws, and grown fatter. I have a magnificent maxim, which is 'Repent nothing.' And if at one time I was a wild customer, and have my conscience loaded to the utmost capacity, nevertheless I have been able to enjoy myself, and must be content. Only woe to him who reminds me of it. I will pay him out by bringing home to him all the vexation and resentment it has cost me. Then what has a man got faults for, if he mayn't be revenged for them on some one else?" "A comfortable philosophy," laughed Ulrich. "I make everything comfortable for myself," Leo replied, stroking his blond beard back over his shoulders; "sins as well as reformation. Now, when I have awakened to full consciousness of my youthful folly, and see that I have squandered the best years of my life, neglected my possessions, sinned against my friends--don't interrupt; I have, more than you think--grieved my mother's heart and made her suffer for my wickedness, if I burst forth in lamentation, or tormented myself with self-reproaches, or sank into a slough of despair, would it do anybody any good? Nobody. What should I undo that has happened in the past? Nothing! On the contrary, I should but complicate matters. And now shall I tell you how I happen to have come home? Your last letter was forwarded from Buenos Ayres to the steppes, where I had been camping for a few months. I had come in from a buffalo-hunt, sweating and tired as a dog, when it was put into my hand. You wrote of my property being in a bad way, of the master's eye being needed in all directions, that you could not stave off ruin much longer--and a good deal more. I knew well enough that it must be on the decline, especially once I played away such monstrous sums in that cursed den of thieves, Monte Carlo; but I had been too easy-going to think about it. Over in Europe was a world full of cares and worries; but here was freedom and sheer living for the joy of living. 'Let the whole fabric crumble,' said I to myself. 'Keep out of the way of the _débris_ and stay here. Why shouldn't I?' Mother and sisters were provided for. I owed no one anything, so I left the camp, and wandered forth into the dusky steppe to reflect further on the matter. I felt that I might hit on the right solution there, for I don't believe there could be a spot more adapted for self-communion than that grassy desert, with the wide grey sky overhead. That is why the people of those parts, too, are so cursedly cute and murder each other without prejudice. "Well, the long and short of it was that when I was striding along a ploughed path, between wheatears as tall as a man, my foot struck against something. It was the carcass of a horse which had fallen there. One comes across such a sight on the roads every fifty yards, and often it is not one dead horse only, but heaps of them. What struck me about this one was that they hadn't taken off its harness. It was still warm, and could have been dead scarcely twenty-four hours. Apparently it had belonged to the caravan of our expedition, and I resolved to give our guides a reminder for their negligence. Then as I contemplated this poor beast, that looked at me with wide-open, blue-grey eyes as if it were yet alive, there came into my head the saying of a man who endowed our squirearchy with new life, new strength, and new _morale_, words that he once spoke in the Reichstag--'A good horse dies in harness.' And all of a sudden I saw _you_ before me--you with your miserable skeleton body, who, with colossal energy, have had to wrestle for every inch of what you have become; you whom every half-fledged stripling could knock down, but whom the lowest drunkards among your tenants worship with as much reverence and awe as their God--you who were born to be anything but a country squire, and yet have so trained yourself to it that you have converted the old tumble-down heritage of your ancestors into a modern model estate--you who sit up at night poring over scientific books, and never weary of drinking in new knowledge--you who have given our constituency a name in the Reichstag (don't protest; I know. Even out there people sometimes read German newspapers). Yes, I saw you before me, labouring on without pause or rest, till the weak remnant of flesh that still hung on your bones was demanded as tribute. "'A good horse dies in harness,' I repeated over and over again to myself, and began to be just a little bit ashamed. And you see, for me to feel ashamed, when otherwise I was so well satisfied with myself, meant that there was something rotten somewhere. So, 'Egad!' said I to myself. 'Tilt with your thick skull against all obstacles, and be a damned steady fellow; and to begin your reformation at once you shall start for home at dawn of day.' And that same night, as a proof of my strong moral heroism, I drank the whole company (for the most part God-forsaken scum) under the table--at least I would have done so if there had been a table. When they were all lying in artistic attitudes on the grass I had my horse saddled, and with my two servants and the necessary provisions I began my gallop into space. The beasts sniffed in the morning air almost as if they scented the Halewitz stables. In three weeks I was at Buenos Ayres, in five at Hamburg... eighteen hours later at the Prussian Crown, where I am sitting now. Come, drink another!" The glasses clinked, and Ulrich's eyes, radiant with pride, hung on his new-found friend. "Do your people know of your arrival?" he asked. "They haven't any idea of it. Unknown, I shall slink into my house and lands, like my prototype, the noble long-suffering old Ulysses. I am afraid I shall not find the outlook very brilliant." "I will not prejudice you beforehand," Ulrich said. "We shall have time to talk business when you have seen things with your own eyes. Your steward, Kutowski, will scarcely be able to succeed in hoodwinking you, however much he may try. They are all well, your people. Your mother's hair is whiter, but she is quite as jolly, and quite as pious, as ever, and your sister Elly has grown into a sweetly pretty girl, and already is much admired. Your sister Johanna----" He paused, and the lines of care on his forehead deepened. "Well, what about her?" asked Leo, in surprise. "You will see for yourself," was the response. "Her long widowhood does not seem to have been good for her. She is lonely and embittered. She has given up coming to Uhlenfelde, and is on bad terms with my wife. Why, no one knows. She also seems to bear a grudge against me." "Nonsense! I can't believe that!" exclaimed Leo. "She always swore by you, and does still, I am sure." "Apropos," Ulrich interposed, "do you know there is a new member in your household?" "Indeed! Who may that be?" "Hertha Prachwitz--Johanna's stepdaughter." Leo recollected. He had never seen her, but his mother had raved about her in nearly every letter. "I suppose you know," Ulrich said, smiling, "that she is heiress to the Podlinsky estates. It is said that your mother jealously guards this treasure, with the express purpose of offering her to you immediately on your return." Leo laughed. "That is just like her, dear old lady. Since I was in jackets she has coupled me with every female possessor of a respectable fortune. I shall have no objection to seeing the little heiress. But, what is more important than that or anything else, Uli----" "Well?" "What are you and I to do?" "Yes, what are you and I to do?" The friends looked at each other in blank silence. III The river flowed on its way in the last rays of the setting sun. Its smooth surface was still steeped in purple, and a wide-meshed network of silver ribbons, at one place melting into each other, at another clearly defined and intermingled with fantastic shapes, reeds, flowers, and sedges, spread itself over the darkly glowing water. But the willows, which kept watch like sentinels on the bank in vague shadowy rows, were already casting broad bands of darkness across the edge of the shining mirror, and these were slowly encroaching on its centre. The distance lay veiled in a blue haze. Here and there a damp mist mounted from the meadows and clung in silvery wisps about the tops of solitary clumps of poplars which rose above the level, wide-spreading fields, and stood outlined sharply against the rosy glow of the evening sky. Silence reigned far and wide. From time to time a dog in some invisible farmyard bayed sleepily. A broody reed-sparrow now and then gave an anxious twitter, as if in fear of an enemy, and high aloft the subdued cry of a kingfisher, returning late from the chase to its nest, sounded through the air. There was life on the water. A raft on its way into the valley revolved lazily in the circle of light, which grew gradually smaller, and being now cut in two, threatened to vanish soon altogether in darkness. Like a great snake with fiery jaws it drifted there. The flames beneath the supper-cauldron blazed, and blue-grey vapour ascended to paint a long strip of cloud on the evening sky, where here and there a star shyly opened its eye. A vehicle came rattling along the high-road which led from Münsterberg to the ferry in the village of Wengern, and drew up at the ferry station, which was deserted and dark, ferry-boat and man having retired to rest on the other side. The powerful outline of Leo's athletic figure filled the back seat. He was leaning back indolently, whistling snatches of a nameless song and sending forth clouds of smoke from a short clay pipe. Pulling himself erect, he cried out in a voice of thunder to the opposite bank, "Ferryman, a-hoy!" Some time elapsed before he was answered by a sign of life. The light of a lantern moving hither and thither at last settled its course, and from the end of the raft cast a long gold line across the stream. The driver, who was a young strapping peasant lad, belonging to the stables of the Prussian Crown, turned round on the box, and begging the "gnädiger Herr's" pardon, suggested that it was not the proper big ferry-boat but only a skiff which was coming across. Leo gave vent to his ire in a salvo of Spanish oaths, and the driver thought the best thing to do would be to send the ferryman back. "So that I may kick my heels here for another half-hour," Leo said. "No, my lad, I would rather use my own strong legs, and enter my ancestral home on foot. Have _you_ a home, my lad?" "Why, of course, sir," the driver replied. "My father sent me out to service that I might learn something of the ways of the world." Leo chuckled, and went on smoking in silence. Every word of the broad, homely dialect that fell on his ear, every fair sunburnt honest countenance that met his eye, renewed his affection for his half-forgotten birthplace. "And I, fool, didn't want to come back," he murmured to himself. The boat landed. The ferryman was still old Jürgens, with the plaid woollen comforter round his neck and the same great patches of sailcloth on the knees of his trousers. He began to grumble and scold. "Why hadn't they shouted across 'Horse and carriage.' Did not every baby in arms know by this time that was the right way of summoning the big ferry barge instead of the small boat." "You are quite right, Jürgens," said Leo, tapping him majestically on the shoulder; "it is a grave scandal that your system of governing the stream is not more respected." At the first sound of his voice the old man shook with fright. Then he snatched off his cap and stammered in confusion, "The master! the master!" The post of ferryman at Wengern was in the gift of Halewitz, and it had been given twenty years ago to old Jürgens (for even then he had been old), in reward for his long and faithful services to the family. It was no sinecure; but where does such a thing as a sinecure exist in the country of Prussia? The aged retainer struggled to keep back his tears; he seized the leonine paw that rested on his shoulder, and seemed as if he would never stop stroking it with his horny gnarled hands. Leo, who was every moment feeling more at home in his patriarchal inheritance, ordered his luggage to be left in the little ferry-house, and, lavishly overpaying the young driver, dismissed him. The boat put off and glided with a slight grinding on the pebbles of the shallow water into mid-stream. Leo, content, absently let his hand dip into the water, and delighted in the little sparkling rivulets that ran up his arm. Meanwhile the old man gazed at him from the end of the boat with big tear-dimmed eyes. "It would be best," he said at last, "to row the 'gnädiger Herr' as far as the Isle of Friendship, which is halfway there." Leo nodded. The Isle of Friendship! So well known was the tie which bound him and Ulrich together that their friendship had become a romance current amongst the people, so that even the name they had given in joke to the place where as boys they had loved best to meet, which they had never mentioned except to a few near relations, had grown into a geographical landmark for the public. Ah, but if they knew! If they could see the ghost which had arisen between them! "Repent nothing," a voice cried out within him; and he struck the water with his clenched fist, till a fountain of glistening drops started up around him. Old Jürgens nearly dropped his oars, in alarm, and stuttered out a query. Leo laughed at him. "I didn't mean anything, old man," he said. "I was simply quarrelling with brother within." "No good to be got out of him--maybe he's a devil," said the old ferryman, philosophically, and rowed on. The boat had turned its keel down the river, which shimmered faintly as it wound along between the dusky blackness of the willow-bushes, now widening almost into a lake, then narrowing where a headland, like an outstretched knee, jutted darkly into the ripples. The deep ruddy glow on the horizon now covered a smaller space. A phosphorescent green, slashed with small silver-fringed clouds, slowly struggled higher and higher till it was lost in the dark blue of night. The twilight of midnight, the dreamy magic of which is only known to men who have their homes in northern climes, was descending on the earth. Just in front of the boat floated the raft, a huge mass reflected in the shining water, with the smoke from smouldering brushwood curling softly upwards and hovering in the air above it. In a few minutes they overtook it. Figures crouching on the rafters raised their heads in languid curiosity and stared at the boat as it passed. Red flames flickered still under the cauldron, and from within the straw-roofed cabin, rough as any rubbish-heap in the fields, came the sound of a woman's voice singing a plaintive ditty. In about half an hour the black shadowy outline of an island reared itself from the middle of the gleaming mirror of water. It resembled a massive flower-basket, for from the stony edge of its banks the ragged branches of the alders drooped far over into the stream. This was it. At the sight of it a host of pictures and memories surged up from his heart's secret depths, where they had till now lain dormant, sent to sleep over and over again by the one grim, overshadowing thought that had brooded on his mind like a vulture, the deadening flap of whose wings had drowned for years all home voices and sentiment within him. Leo started up, and sought with eager eyes to penetrate the thick boscage. But he could not descry a gleam of the white temple. It lay buried in the dusk of the trees. But there on the right bank were to be seen buildings black and ragged in outline; that was Uhlenfelde, the ancient, noble house where lanky Uli ruled as lord and master. And beside him, as mistress---- "Be calm, don't think about it," he cried inwardly. The boat took a sharp curve towards the left bank, where, amidst tall reeds, shone forth the white sand of a landing-place. A few minutes later Leo was striding alone over the dewy meadows, from which there rose a sweet scent so thick and heavy one could almost grasp it with the hand. At his feet, to right and left, a thousand grasshoppers kept up a lively chorus. The little creatures, startled by his footsteps, hopped on like heralds before him, and in the branches of the elms which studded the meadow path he fancied that he heard from time to time a rustling whisper of welcome. A wilderness of blossom rioted in the uncut hedges. The honeysuckle bells swept his hands, and a thick rank growth of bindweed and runnet twined about his feet. A fine moisture sprinkled his brow refreshingly. He stood still and looked round him. All was his property as far as his eye could reach in the summer twilight. He was overcome by a sense of shame. This soft, warm nest, designed by a kind Providence, as it seemed, for his especial comfort, had he not, more thoughtlessly, it is true, than heartlessly, been ready to sacrifice it to the first stranger who came along? A lofty consciousness of inherited possessions, the beauty of the summer night, and the nearness of home, combined to inspire and soften him. He pulled off his cap, folded his hands over the warm bowl of his pipe and prayed, with tears pouring down his cheeks. It was a man, ripe and strong, moderately gifted, but full of common sense, knowing well what he had learnt from life, what he might do and might not, who came thus boldly into the presence of his Maker and spoke frankly to Him. When he had done, he puffed vigorously at his cooling pipe, and in a serene mood walked towards the ancestral seat of the Sellenthins, which greeted him out of the shadows. IV He came to a standstill at the gate-house. As he was about to pull the bell, a din of singing voices fell on his ear, interrupted by guttural laughter and applause, which elicited a new and more confused outburst of song. The noise seemed to proceed from the bailiff's house, which was the dwelling of Uncle Kutowski as well as of the two bailiffs. Presumably the stream of light, which till now had been concealed from his eyes by the gate-post, came from the same quarter. "They manage to have a rollicking good time of it without me at Halewitz, evidently," he said to himself, frowning, and was going to climb over the wall near the wicket gate, when he remembered in time the broken bottle-glass stuck in the cement of the bastions for the reception of thieves and tramps. There was nothing to be done but to slink round in the shadow of the park wall to the little secret garden door which once had been contrived for him by Uncle Kutowski, so that his excursions by night should not come to his father's ears. Of course it was an understood thing that in so zealously rendering this service. Uncle Kutowski also acted in his own interest, for he too had had good reasons for keeping his nocturnal adventures private and unbeknown to the master of the house. Leo paced slowly along the dry moat which skirted the park, and over which the hundred-year-old limes of Halewitz cast the shade of their dark masses of foliage, till he came to the spot which he supposed was only known to himself and to his uncle. But, to his vexation and amazement, he saw that the little door was standing wide open, and, worse still, the wilderness of brambles and gooseberry bushes which, on the inner side, had almost buried the approach to the exit, had been uprooted and levelled and replaced by a convenient gravel path that seemed to invite alluringly any evil-disposed person to the privy door. "Thus do our old vices punish us," thought Leo; and he recalled with a stab at his heart the period of his life when at this door, night after night, there stood ready for him a saddled horse, which Uncle Kutowski had procured for him, and which towards morning would be driven out to grass, sweating and covered with foam. "Wait a bit, you scoundrels," he muttered betwixt his teeth; "I'll show you which is the right path." There were still lights illuminating the windows of the castle that faced the flower-parterre. A broad stone terrace ran nearly the whole length of the rambling building, and old vines which never bore fruit draped the balustrade. In the middle of the terrace a flight of dilapidated steps, flanked by two pock-marked nymphs in sandstone, led down to the garden. The glass doors of the garden salon were open, and the hanging lamp with its three sconces lighted the table, from which supper had been cleared away, and sent a warm red glow across the terrace as far as the venerable heads of the nymphs, whose fragile profiles it touched with gold. Leo walked as softly as the crunching gravel and his own vigorous footsteps would allow, towards the light. He avoided the wooden kiosque, the white plaster pillars of which, seen from the opposite side, gave a finish to the perspective of the landscape, and rounding the fish-pond, from whose slimy depths rose a soft gurgling, he banged his head against the obelisk. It was a stupid erection of brickwork and mortar, with a bronze tablet let into the middle, recording for posterity the heroic deeds of Standard-bearer Fritz von Sellenthin at the battle of Hohenfriedberg. "A pity the storms have not demolished this bric-a-brac," thought Leo, as he rubbed the lump on his forehead with a pained smile. At this moment there appeared framed in the brightly illuminated doorway two girlish figures with their arms round each other. They moved forward with a lazy rocking motion, and the gold rays of the lamp flashed on their heads and outlined the shadows cast by the two slender young forms with a narrow line of light. They had flung on _negligée_ attire
, who cut throats and pick pockets with their own hands? The thing is impossible. The laws of the country are, therefore, ineffectual and abortive, because they are made by the rich for the poor, by the wise for the ignorant, by the respectable and exalted in station for the very scum and refuse of the community. If Newgate would resolve itself into a committee of the whole Press-yard, with Jack Ketch at its head, aided by confidential persons from the county prisons or the Hulks, and would make a clear breast, some _data_ might be found out to proceed upon; but as it is, the _criminal mind_ of the country is a book sealed, no one has been able to penetrate to the inside! Mr. Bentham, in his attempts to revise and amend our criminal jurisprudence, proceeds entirely on his favourite principle of Utility. Convince highwaymen and house-breakers that it will be for their interest to reform, and they will reform and lead honest lives; according to Mr. Bentham. He says, "All men act from calculation, even madmen reason." And, in our opinion, he might as well carry this maxim to Bedlam or St. Luke's, and apply it to the inhabitants, as think to coerce or overawe the inmates of a gaol, or those whose practices make them candidates for that distinction, by the mere dry, detailed convictions of the understanding. Criminals are not to be influenced by reason; for it is of the very essence of crime to disregard consequences both to ourselves and others. You may as well preach philosophy to a drunken man, or to the dead, as to those who are under the instigation of any mischievous passion. A man is a drunkard, and you tell him he ought to be sober; he is debauched, and you ask him to reform; he is idle, and you recommend industry to him as his wisest course; he gambles, and you remind him that he may be ruined by this foible; he has lost his character, and you advise him to get into some reputable service or lucrative situation; vice becomes a habit with him, and you request him to rouse himself and shake it off; he is starving, and you warn him that if he breaks the law, he will be hanged. None of this reasoning reaches the mark it aims at. The culprit, who violates and suffers the vengeance of the laws, is not the dupe of ignorance, but the slave of passion, the victim of habit or necessity. To argue with strong passion, with inveterate habit, with desperate circumstances, is to talk to the winds. Clownish ignorance may indeed be dispelled, and taught better; but it is seldom that a criminal is not aware of the consequences of his act, or has not made up his mind to the alternative. They are, in general, _too knowing by half_. You tell a person of this stamp what is his interest; he says he does not care about his interest, or the world and he differ on that particular. But there is one point on which he must agree with them, namely, what _they_ think of his conduct, and that is the only hold you have of him. A man may be callous and indifferent to what happens to himself; but he is never indifferent to public opinion, or proof against open scorn and infamy. Shame, then, not fear, is the sheet-anchor of the law. He who is not afraid of being pointed at as a _thief_, will not mind a month's hard labour. He who is prepared to take the life of another, is already reckless of his own. But every one makes a sorry figure in the pillory; and the being launched from the New Drop lowers a man in his own opinion. The lawless and violent spirit, who is hurried by headstrong self-will to break the laws, does not like to have the ground of pride and obstinacy struck from under his feet. This is what gives the _swells_ of the metropolis such a dread of the _tread-mill_--it makes them ridiculous. It must be confessed, that this very circumstance renders the reform of criminals nearly hopeless. It is the apprehension of being stigmatized by public opinion, the fear of what will be thought and said of them, that deters men from the violation of the laws, while their character remains unimpeached; but honour once lost, all is lost. The man can never be himself again! A citizen is like a soldier, a part of a machine, who submits to certain hardships, privations, and dangers, not for his own ease, pleasure, profit, or even conscience, but--_for shame_. What is it that keeps the machine together in either case? Not punishment or discipline, but sympathy. The soldier mounts the breach or stands in the trenches, the peasant hedges and ditches, or the mechanic plies his ceaseless task, because the one will not be called a _coward_, the other a _rogue_: but let the one turn deserter and the other vagabond, and there is an end of him. The grinding law of necessity, which is no other than a name, a breath, loses its force; he is no longer sustained by the good opinion of others, and he drops out of his place in society, a useless clog! Mr. Bentham takes a culprit, and puts him into what he calls a _Panopticon_, that is, a sort of circular prison, with open cells, like a glass bee-hive. He sits in the middle, and sees all the other does. He gives him work to do, and lectures him if he does not do it. He takes liquor from him, and society, and liberty; but he feeds and clothes him, and keeps him out of mischief; and when he has convinced him, by force and reason together, that this life is for his good, he turns him out upon the world a reformed man, and as confident of the success of his handy-work, as the shoemaker of that which he has just taken off the last, or the Parisian barber in Sterne, of the buckle of his wig. "Dip it in the ocean," said the perruquier, "and it will stand!" But we doubt the durability of our projector's patchwork. Will our convert to the great principle of Utility work when he is from under Mr. Bentham's eye, because he was forced to work when under it? Will he keep sober, because he has been kept from liquor so long? Will he not return to loose company, because he has had the pleasure of sitting vis-a-vis with a philosopher of late? Will he not steal, now that his hands are untied? Will he not take the road, now that it is free to him? Will he not call his benefactor all the names he can set his tongue to, the moment his back is turned? All this is more than to be feared. The charm of criminal life, like that of savage life, consists in liberty, in hardship, in danger, and in the contempt of death, in one word, in extraordinary excitement; and he who has tasted of it, will no more return to regular habits of life, than a man will take to water after drinking brandy, or than a wild beast will give over hunting its prey. Miracles never cease, to be sure; but they are not to be had wholesale, or _to order_. Mr. Owen, who is another of these proprietors and patentees of reform, has lately got an American savage with him, whom he carries about in great triumph and complacency, as an antithesis to his _New View of Society_, and as winding up his reasoning to what it mainly wanted, an epigrammatic point. Does the benevolent visionary of the Lanark cotton-mills really think this _natural man_ will act as a foil to his _artificial man_? Does he for a moment imagine that his _Address to the higher and middle classes_, with all its advantages of fiction, makes any thing like so interesting a romance as _Hunter's Captivity among the North American Indians?_ Has he any thing to shew, in all the apparatus of New Lanark and its desolate monotony, to excite the thrill of imagination like the blankets made of wreaths of snow under which the wild wood-rovers bury themselves for weeks in winter? Or the skin of a leopard, which our hardy adventurer slew, and which served him for great coat and bedding? Or the rattle-snake that he found by his side as a bedfellow? Or his rolling himself into a ball to escape from him? Or his suddenly placing himself against a tree to avoid being trampled to death by the herd of wild buffaloes, that came rushing on like the sound of thunder? Or his account of the huge spiders that prey on bluebottles and gilded flies in green pathless forests; or of the great Pacific Ocean, that the natives look upon as the gulf that parts time from eternity, and that is to waft them to the spirits of their fathers? After all this, Mr. Hunter must find Mr. Owen and his parallellograms trite and flat, and will, we suspect, take an opportunity to escape from them! Mr. Bentham's method of reasoning, though comprehensive and exact, labours under the defect of most systems--it is too _topical_. It includes every thing; but it includes every thing alike. It is rather like an inventory, than a valuation of different arguments. Every possible suggestion finds a place, so that the mind is distracted as much as enlightened by this perplexing accuracy. The exceptions seem as important as the rule. By attending to the minute, we overlook the great; and in summing up an account, it will not do merely to insist on the number of items without considering their amount. Our author's page presents a very nicely dove-tailed mosaic pavement of legal common-places. We slip and slide over its even surface without being arrested any where. Or his view of the human mind resembles a map, rather than a picture: the outline, the disposition is correct, but it wants colouring and relief. There is a technicality of manner, which renders his writings of more value to the professional inquirer than to the general reader. Again, his style is unpopular, not to say unintelligible. He writes a language of his own, that _darkens knowledge_. His works have been translated into French--they ought to be translated into English. People wonder that Mr. Bentham has not been prosecuted for the boldness and severity of some of his invectives. He might wrap up high treason in one of his inextricable periods, and it would never find its way into Westminster-Hall. He is a kind of Manuscript author--he writes a cypher-hand, which the vulgar have no key to. The construction of his sentences is a curious framework with pegs and hooks to hang his thoughts upon, for his own use and guidance, but almost out of the reach of every body else. It is a barbarous philosophical jargon, with all the repetitions, parentheses, formalities, uncouth nomenclature and verbiage of law-Latin; and what makes it worse, it is not mere verbiage, but has a great deal of acuteness and meaning in it, which you would be glad to pick out if you could. In short, Mr. Bentham writes as if he was allowed but a single sentence to express his whole view of a subject in, and as if, should he omit a single circumstance or step of the argument, it would be lost to the world for ever, like an estate by a flaw in the title-deeds. This is over-rating the importance of our own discoveries, and mistaking the nature and object of language altogether. Mr. Bentham has _acquired_ this disability--it is not natural to him. His admirable little work _On Usury_, published forty years ago, is clear, easy, and vigorous. But Mr. Bentham has shut himself up since then "in nook monastic," conversing only with followers of his own, or with "men of Ind," and has endeavoured to overlay his natural humour, sense, spirit, and style with the dust and cobwebs of an obscure solitude. The best of it is, he thinks his present mode of expressing himself perfect, and that whatever may be objected to his law or logic, no one can find the least fault with the purity, simplicity, and perspicuity of his style. Mr. Bentham, in private life, is an amiable and exemplary character. He is a little romantic, or so; and has dissipated part of a handsome fortune in practical speculations. He lends an ear to plausible projectors, and, if he cannot prove them to be wrong in their premises or their conclusions, thinks himself bound _in reason_ to stake his money on the venture. Strict logicians are licensed visionaries. Mr. Bentham is half-brother to the late Mr. Speaker Abbott[A]--_Proh pudor_! He was educated at Eton, and still takes our novices to task about a passage in Homer, or a metre in Virgil. He was afterwards at the University, and he has described the scruples of an ingenuous youthful mind about subscribing the articles, in a passage in his _Church-of-Englandism_, which smacks of truth and honour both, and does one good to read it in an age, when "to be honest" (or not to laugh at the very idea of honesty) "is to be one man picked out of ten thousand!" Mr. Bentham relieves his mind sometimes, after the fatigue of study, by playing on a fine old organ, and has a relish for Hogarth's prints. He turns wooden utensils in a lathe for exercise, and fancies he can turn men in the same manner. He has no great fondness for poetry, and can hardly extract a moral out of Shakespear. His house is warmed and lighted by steam. He is one of those who prefer the artificial to the natural in most things, and think the mind of man omnipotent. He has a great contempt for out-of-door prospects, for green fields and trees, and is for referring every thing to Utility. There is a little narrowness in this; for if all the sources of satisfaction are taken away, what is to become of utility itself? It is, indeed, the great fault of this able and extraordinary man, that he has concentrated his faculties and feelings too entirely on one subject and pursuit, and has not "looked enough abroad into universality."[B] [Footnote A: Now Lord Colchester.] [Footnote B: Lord Bacon's Advancement of Learning.] * * * * * WILLIAM GODWIN The Spirit of the Age was never more fully-shewn than in its treatment of this writer--its love of paradox and change, its dastard submission to prejudice and to the fashion of the day. Five-and-twenty years ago he was in the very zenith of a sultry and unwholesome popularity; he blazed as a sun in the firmament of reputation; no one was more talked of, more looked up to, more sought after, and wherever liberty, truth, justice was the theme, his name was not far off:--now he has sunk below the horizon, and enjoys the serene twilight of a doubtful immortality. Mr. Godwin, during his lifetime, has secured to himself the triumphs and the mortifications of an extreme notoriety and of a sort of posthumous fame. His bark, after being tossed in the revolutionary tempest, now raised to heaven by all the fury of popular breath, now almost dashed in pieces, and buried in the quicksands of ignorance, or scorched with the lightning of momentary indignation, at length floats on the calm wave that is to bear it down the stream of time. Mr. Godwin's person is not known, he is not pointed out in the street, his conversation is not courted, his opinions are not asked, he is at the head of no cabal, he belongs to no party in the State, he has no train of admirers, no one thinks it worth his while even to traduce and vilify him, he has scarcely friend or foe, the world make a point (as Goldsmith used to say) of taking no more notice of him than if such an individual had never existed; he is to all ordinary intents and purposes dead and buried; but the author of _Political Justice_ and of _Caleb Williams_ can never die, his name is an abstraction in letters, his works are standard in the history of intellect. He is thought of now like any eminent writer a hundred-and-fifty years ago, or just as he will be a hundred-and-fifty years hence. He knows this, and smiles in silent mockery of himself, reposing on the monument of his fame-- "Sedet, in eternumque sedebit infelix Theseus." No work in our time gave such a blow to the philosophical mind of the country as the celebrated _Enquiry concerning Political Justice_. Tom Paine was considered for the time as a Tom Fool to him; Paley an old woman; Edmund Burke a flashy sophist. Truth, moral truth, it was supposed, had here taken up its abode; and these were the oracles of thought. "Throw aside your books of chemistry," said Wordsworth to a young man, a student in the Temple, "and read Godwin on Necessity." Sad necessity! Fatal reverse! Is truth then so variable? Is it one thing at twenty, and another at forty? Is it at a burning heat in 1793, and below _zero_ in 1814? Not so, in the name of manhood and of common sense! Let us pause here a little.--Mr. Godwin indulged in extreme opinions, and carried with him all the most sanguine and fearless understandings of the time. What then? Because those opinions were overcharged, were they therefore altogether groundless? Is the very God of our idolatry all of a sudden to become an abomination and an anathema? Could so many young men of talent, of education, and of principle have been hurried away by what had neither truth, nor nature, not one particle of honest feeling nor the least shew of reason in it? Is the _Modern Philosophy_ (as it has been called) at one moment a youthful bride, and the next a withered beldame, like the false Duessa in Spenser? Or is the vaunted edifice of Reason, like his House of Pride, gorgeous in front, and dazzling to approach, while "its hinder parts are ruinous, decayed, and old?" Has the main prop, which supported the mighty fabric, been shaken and given way under the strong grasp of some Samson; or has it not rather been undermined by rats and vermin? At one time, it almost seemed, that "if this failed, "The pillar'd firmament was rottenness, And earth's base built of stubble:" now scarce a shadow of it remains, it is crumbled to dust, nor is it even talked of! "What then, went ye forth for to see, a reed shaken with the wind?" Was it for this that our young gownsmen of the greatest expectation and promise, versed in classic lore, steeped in dialectics, armed at all points for the foe, well read, well nurtured, well provided for, left the University and the prospect of lawn sleeves, tearing asunder the shackles of the free born spirit, and the cobwebs of school-divinity, to throw themselves at the feet of the new Gamaliel, and learn wisdom from him? Was it for this, that students at the bar, acute, inquisitive, sceptical (here only wild enthusiasts) neglected for a while the paths of preferment and the law as too narrow, tortuous, and unseemly to bear the pure and broad light of reason? Was it for this, that students in medicine missed their way to Lecturerships and the top of their profession, deeming lightly of the health of the body, and dreaming only of the renovation of society and the march of mind? Was it to this that Mr. Southey's _Inscriptions_ pointed? to this that Mr. Coleridge's _Religious Musings_ tended? Was it for this, that Mr. Godwin himself sat with arms folded, and, "like Cato, gave his little senate laws?" Or rather, like another Prospero, uttered syllables that with their enchanted breath were to change the world, and might almost stop the stars in their courses? Oh! and is all forgot? Is this sun of intellect blotted from the sky? Or has it suffered total eclipse? Or is it we who make the fancied gloom, by looking at it through the paltry, broken, stained fragments of our own interests and prejudices? Were we fools then, or are we dishonest now? Or was the impulse of the mind less likely to be true and sound when it arose from high thought and warm feeling, than afterwards, when it was warped and debased by the example, the vices, and follies of the world? The fault, then, of Mr. Godwin's philosophy, in one word, was too much ambition--"by that sin fell the angels!" He conceived too nobly of his fellows (the most unpardonable crime against them, for there is nothing that annoys our self-love so much as being complimented on imaginary achievements, to which we are wholly unequal)--he raised the standard of morality above the reach of humanity, and by directing virtue to the most airy and romantic heights, made her path dangerous, solitary, and impracticable. The author of the _Political Justice_ took abstract reason for the rule of conduct, and abstract good for its end. He places the human mind on an elevation, from which it commands a view of the whole line of moral consequences; and requires it to conform its acts to the larger and more enlightened conscience which it has thus acquired. He absolves man from the gross and narrow ties of sense, custom, authority, private and local attachment, in order that he may devote himself to the boundless pursuit of universal benevolence. Mr. Godwin gives no quarter to the amiable weaknesses of our nature, nor does he stoop to avail himself of the supplementary aids of an imperfect virtue. Gratitude, promises, friendship, family affection give way, not that they may be merged in the opposite vices or in want of principle; but that the void may be filled up by the disinterested love of good, and the dictates of inflexible justice, which is "the law of laws, and sovereign of sovereigns." All minor considerations yield, in his system, to the stern sense of duty, as they do, in the ordinary and established ones, to the voice of necessity. Mr. Godwin's theory and that of more approved reasoners differ only in this, that what are with them the exceptions, the extreme cases, he makes the every-day rule. No one denies that on great occasions, in moments of fearful excitement, or when a mighty object is at stake, the lesser and merely instrumental points of duty are to be sacrificed without remorse at the shrine of patriotism, of honour, and of conscience. But the disciple of the _New School_ (no wonder it found so many impugners, even in its own bosom!) is to be always the hero of duty; the law to which he has bound himself never swerves nor relaxes; his feeling of what is right is to be at all times wrought up to a pitch of enthusiastic self-devotion; he must become the unshrinking martyr and confessor of the public good. If it be said that this scheme is chimerical and impracticable on ordinary occasions, and to the generality of mankind, well and good; but those who accuse the author of having trampled on the common feelings and prejudices of mankind in wantonness or insult, or without wishing to substitute something better (and only unattainable, because it is better) in their stead, accuse him wrongfully. We may not be able to launch the bark of our affections on the ocean-tide of humanity, we may be forced to paddle along its shores, or shelter in its creeks and rivulets: but we have no right to reproach the bold and adventurous pilot, who dared us to tempt the uncertain abyss, with our own want of courage or of skill, or with the jealousies and impatience, which deter us from undertaking, or might prevent us from accomplishing the voyage! The _Enquiry concerning Political Justice_ (it was urged by its favourers and defenders at the time, and may still be so, without either profaneness or levity) is a metaphysical and logical commentary on some of the most beautiful and striking texts of Scripture. Mr. Godwin is a mixture of the Stoic and of the Christian philosopher. To break the force of the vulgar objections and outcry that have been raised against the Modern Philosophy, as if it were a new and monstrous birth in morals, it may be worth noticing, that volumes of sermons have been written to excuse the founder of Christianity for not including friendship and private affection among its golden rules, but rather excluding them.[A] Moreover, the answer to the question, "Who is thy neighbour?" added to the divine precept, "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself," is the same as in the exploded pages of our author,--"He to whom we can do most good." In determining this point, we were not to be influenced by any extrinsic or collateral considerations, by our own predilections, or the expectations of others, by our obligations to them or any services they might be able to render us, by the climate they were born in, by the house they lived in, by rank or religion, or party, or personal ties, but by the abstract merits, the pure and unbiassed justice of the case. The artificial helps and checks to moral conduct were set aside as spurious and unnecessary, and we came at once to the grand and simple question--"In what manner we could best contribute to the greatest possible good?" This was the paramount obligation in all cases whatever, from which we had no right to free ourselves upon any idle or formal pretext, and of which each person was to judge for himself, under the infallible authority of his own opinion and the inviolable sanction of his self-approbation. "There was the rub that made _philosophy_ of so short life!" Mr. Godwin's definition of morals was the same as the admired one of law, _reason without passion_; but with the unlimited scope of private opinion, and in a boundless field of speculation (for nothing less would satisfy the pretensions of the New School), there was danger that the unseasoned novice might substitute some pragmatical conceit of his own for the rule of right reason, and mistake a heartless indifference for a superiority to more natural and generous feelings. Our ardent and dauntless reformer followed out the moral of the parable of the Good Samaritan into its most rigid and repulsive consequences with a pen of steel, and let fall his "trenchant blade" on every vulnerable point of human infirmity; but there is a want in his system of the mild and persuasive tone of the Gospel, where "all is conscience and tender heart." Man was indeed screwed up, by mood and figure, into a logical machine, that was to forward the public good with the utmost punctuality and effect, and it might go very well on smooth ground and under favourable circumstances; but would it work up-hill or _against the grain_? It was to be feared that the proud Temple of Reason, which at a distance and in stately supposition shone like the palaces of the New Jerusalem, might (when placed on actual ground) be broken up into the sordid styes of sensuality, and the petty huckster's shops of self-interest! Every man (it was proposed--"so ran the tenour of the bond") was to be a Regulus, a Codrus, a Cato, or a Brutus--every woman a Mother of the Gracchi. "------------It was well said, And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well." But heroes on paper might degenerate into vagabonds in practice, Corinnas into courtezans. Thus a refined and permanent individual attachment is intended to supply the place and avoid the inconveniences of marriage; but vows of eternal constancy, without church security, are found to be fragile. A member of the _ideal_ and perfect commonwealth of letters lends another a hundred pounds for immediate and pressing use; and when he applies for it again, the borrower has still more need of it than he, and retains it for his own especial, which is tantamount to the public good. The Exchequer of pure reason, like that of the State, never refunds. The political as well as the religious fanatic appeals from the over-weening opinion and claims of others to the highest and most impartial tribunal, namely, his own breast. Two persons agree to live together in Chambers on principles of pure equality and mutual assistance--but when it comes to the push, one of them finds that the other always insists on his fetching water from the pump in Hare-court, and cleaning his shoes for him. A modest assurance was not the least indispensable virtue in the new perfectibility code; and it was hence discovered to be a scheme, like other schemes where there are all prizes and no blanks, for the accommodation of the enterprizing and cunning, at the expence of the credulous and honest. This broke up the system, and left no good odour behind it! Reason has become a sort of bye-word, and philosophy has "fallen first into a fasting, then into a sadness, then into a decline, and last, into the dissolution of which we all complain!" This is a worse error than the former: we may be said to have "lost the immortal part of ourselves, and what remains is beastly!" The point of view from which this matter may be fairly considered, is two-fold, and may be stated thus:--In the first place, it by no means follows, because reason is found not to be the only infallible or safe rule of conduct, that it is no rule at all; or that we are to discard it altogether with derision and ignominy. On the contrary, if not the sole, it is the principal ground of action; it is "the guide, the stay and anchor of our purest thoughts, and soul of all our moral being." In proportion as we strengthen and expand this principle, and bring our affections and subordinate, but perhaps more powerful motives of action into harmony with it, it will not admit of a doubt that we advance to the goal of perfection, and answer the ends of our creation, those ends which not only morality enjoins, but which religion sanctions. If with the utmost stretch of reason, man cannot (as some seemed inclined to suppose) soar up to the God, and quit the ground of human frailty, yet, stripped wholly of it, he sinks at once into the brute. If it cannot stand alone, in its naked simplicity, but requires other props to buttress it up, or ornaments to set it off; yet without it the moral structure would fall flat and dishonoured to the ground. Private reason is that which raises the individual above his mere animal instincts, appetites and passions: public reason in its gradual progress separates the savage from the civilized state. Without the one, men would resemble wild beasts in their dens; without the other, they would be speedily converted into hordes of barbarians or banditti. Sir Walter Scott, in his zeal to restore the spirit of loyalty, of passive obedience and non-resistance as an acknowledgment for his having been created a Baronet by a Prince of the House of Brunswick, may think it a fine thing to return in imagination to the good old times, "when in Auvergne alone, there were three hundred nobles whose most ordinary actions were robbery, rape, and murder," when the castle of each Norman baron was a strong hold from which the lordly proprietor issued to oppress and plunder the neighbouring districts, and when the Saxon peasantry were treated by their gay and gallant tyrants as a herd of loathsome swine--but for our own parts we beg to be excused; we had rather live in the same age with the author of Waverley and Blackwood's Magazine. Reason is the meter and alnager in civil intercourse, by which each person's upstart and contradictory pretensions are weighed and approved or found wanting, and without which it could not subsist, any more than traffic or the exchange of commodities could be carried on without weights and measures. It is the medium of knowledge, and the polisher of manners, by creating common interests and ideas. Or in the words of a contemporary writer, "Reason is the queen of the moral world, the soul of the universe, the lamp of human life, the pillar of society, the foundation of law, the beacon of nations, the golden chain let down from heaven, which links all accountable and all intelligent natures in one common system--and in the vain strife between fanatic innovation and fanatic prejudice, we are exhorted to dethrone this queen of the world, to blot out this light of the mind, to deface this fair column, to break in pieces this golden chain! We are to discard and throw from us with loud taunts and bitter execrations that reason, which has been the lofty theme of the philosopher, the poet, the moralist, and the divine, whose name was not first named to be abused by the enthusiasts of the French Revolution, or to be blasphemed by the madder enthusiasts, the advocates of Divine Right, but which is coeval with, and inseparable from the nature and faculties of man--is the image of his Maker stamped upon him at his birth, the understanding breathed into him with the breath of life, and in the participation and improvement of which alone he is raised above the brute creation and his own physical nature!"--The overstrained and ridiculous pretensions of monks and ascetics were never thought to justify a return to unbridled licence of manners, or the throwing aside of all decency. The hypocrisy, cruelty, and fanaticism, often attendant on peculiar professions of sanctity, have not banished the name of religion from the world. Neither can "the unreasonableness of the reason" of some modern sciolists "so unreason our reason," as to debar us of the benefit of this principle in future, or to disfranchise us of the highest privilege of our nature. In the second place, if it is admitted that Reason alone is not the sole and self-sufficient ground of morals, it is to Mr. Godwin that we are indebted for having settled the point. No one denied or distrusted this principle (before his time) as the absolute judge and interpreter in all questions of difficulty; and if this is no longer the case, it is because he has taken this principle, and followed it into its remotest consequences with more keenness of eye and steadiness of hand than any other expounder of ethics. His grand work is (at least) an _experimentum crucis_ to shew the weak sides and imperfections of human reason as the sole law of human action. By overshooting the mark, or by "flying an eagle flight, forth and right on," he has pointed out the limit or line of separation, between what is practicable and what is barely conceivable--by imposing impossible tasks on the naked strength of the will, he has discovered how far it is or is not in our power to dispense with the illusions of sense, to resist the calls of affection, to emancipate ourselves from the force of habit; and thus, though he has not said it himself, has enabled others to say to the towering aspirations after good, and to the over-bearing pride of human intellect--"Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther!" Captain Parry would be thought to have rendered a service to navigation and his country, no less by proving that there is no North-West Passage, than if he had
LAND. I. _Maynooth Grand_. House of Commons, April 16, 1845 II. _Crime and Outrage Bill_. House of Commons, December 13, 1847 III. _Employment of the Poor_. House of Commons, August 25, 1848 IV. _Rate in Aid_. House of Commons, April 2, 1849 V. _Habeas Corpus Suspension Bill_. House of Commons, February 17, 1866 VI. Dublin, October 30, 1866 VII. Dublin, November 2, 1866 VIII. House of Commons, March 14, 1868 IX. House of Commons, April 1, 1868 RUSSIA. I. _War with Russia--The Queen's Message_. House of Commons, March 31, 1854 II. _Enlistment of Foreigners' Bill_. House of Commons, December 22, 1854 III. _Negotiations at Vienna_. House of Commons, February 23, 1855 IV. _On the Prosecution of the Russian War_. House of Commons, June 7, 1855 Letter of John Bright to Absalom Watkin on the Russian War * * * * * INDIA I HOUSE OF COMMONS, JUNE 3, 1853. _From Hansard_. [The ministerial measure for the government of India was introduced by Sir Charles Wood on June 3, 1853. The particulars of the Bill were as follows: The Government proposed that for the future the relations between the Directors and the Board of Control should be unchanged, but that the constitution of the former should be altered and its patronage curtailed. It reduced the number of the Members of the Court from twenty-four to eighteen, of whom twelve were to be elected as before, and six nominated by the Crown from Indian servants who had been ten years in the service of the Crown or the Company. One-third of this number was to go out every second year, but to be re-eligible. Nominations by favour were to be abolished. The governorship of Bengal was to be separated from the office of Governor-General. The legislative council was to be improved and enlarged, the number to be twelve. The Bill passed the House of Lords on June 13.] I feel a considerable disadvantage in rising to address the House after having listened for upwards of five hours to the speech of the right hon. Gentleman. But the question is one, as the right hon. Gentleman has said, of first-rate importance; and as I happen from a variety of circumstances to have paid some attention to it, and to have formed some strong opinions in regard to it, I am unwilling even that the Bill should be brought in, or that this opportunity should pass, without saying something, which will be partly in reply to the speech of the right hon. Gentleman, and partly by way of comment on the plan which he has submitted to the House. There is, as it appears to me, great inconsistency between the speech of the right hon. Gentleman, and that which he proposes should be done; because, really, if we take his speech as a true and faithful statement of the condition of India, and of the past proceedings of the Government in that country, our conviction must be that the right hon. Gentleman will be greatly to be blamed in making any alteration in that Government. At the same time, if it be not a faithful portraiture of the Government, and of its transactions in India, then what the right hon. Gentleman proposes to do in regard to the home administration of that country is altogether insufficient for the occasion. I cannot on the present occasion go into many of the details on which the right hon. Gentleman has touched; but the observations which I have to make will refer to matters of government, and those will be confined chiefly to the organisation of the home administration. I am not much surprised that the Government should have taken what I will call a very unsatisfactory course with regard to the measure they have propounded, because they evidently did not seem exactly to know what they ought to do from the very first moment that this question was brought before them. I do not allude to the whole of the Treasury bench, but I refer particularly to the noble Lord (Lord J. Russell), because he was at the head of the Government when this question was first brought before them. Lord Broughton, then Sir John Hobhouse, was at that time the President of the Board of Control, and he was not in favour of a Committee to inquire into the past government and present condition of India. Shortly afterwards, however, it was considered by the noble Lord (Lord J. Russell) that it would be desirable to have such a Committee appointed. A Committee was appointed, and it sat. But at the commencement of the present Session the noble Lord intimated very distinctly, in answer to a question which I put to him, and which seemed to make the noble Lord unnecessarily angry, that it was the intention of the Government to legislate, and in such a way as to leave the Indian Government almost entirely the same as it had hitherto been. ['No, no!'] Well, I thought that the noble Lord said so, and in corroboration of that I may mention that the noble Lord quoted--and I believe that it was the noble Lord's only authority--the opinion of the right hon. Gentleman the Member for Stamford (Mr. Herries), who considered that no material change was required in the constitution of the home Indian Government. Well, when the noble Lord made that announcement, considerable dissatisfaction was manifested on both sides of the House, some hon. Members speaking in favour of a delay of one, two, or three years, or declaring themselves strongly against the present constitution of the Indian Government. However, from that time to this, various rumours were afloat, and everybody was confident one week that there would be no legislation, or only a postponement; in another week it was thought that there was to be a very sweeping measure (which last report, I must say, I never believed); and the week after that people were again led to the conclusion that there would be a measure introduced such as the one this night submitted to the House. Again, it was understood so lately as last Saturday that there would be no legislation on the subject, excepting a mere temporary measure for a postponement. I confess that I was myself taken in by that announcement. On Monday the hon. Member for Poole (Mr. Danby Seymour) gave notice of a question on the same subject, and he was requested not to ask it till Tuesday. On Tuesday there was a Cabinet Council, and whether there was a change of opinion then I know not, but I presume that there was. The opinion that was confidently expressed on Saturday gave way to a new opinion, and the noble Lord announced that legislation would be proceeded with immediately. All this indicates that there was a good deal of vacillation on the part of the Government. At last, however, has come the speech of the right hon. Gentleman the President of the Board of Control. There were some good things in it, no doubt. I do not suppose that any man could stand up, and go on speaking for five hours, without saying something that was useful. But as to the main question on which this matter rests, I do not believe that the plan which the Government proposes to substitute will be one particle better than that which exists at the present moment. With regard to the question of patronage, I admit, so far as that goes, that the plan proposed by the right hon. Gentleman will be an improvement on the present system. But I do not understand that the particular arrangement of the covenanted service is to be broken up at all. That is a very important matter, because, although he might throw open the nominations to the Indian service to the free competition of all persons in this country, yet if, when these persons get out to India, they are to become a covenanted service, as that service now is constituted, and are to go on from beginning to end in a system of promotion by seniority--and they are to be under pretty much the same arrangement as at present--a great deal of the evil now existing will remain; and the continuance of such a body as that will form a great bar to what I am very anxious to see, namely, a very much wider employment of the most intelligent and able men amongst the native population. The right hon. Gentleman has, in fact, made a long speech wholly in defence of the Indian Government; and I cannot avoid making some remarks upon what he has stated because I wholly dissent from a large portion of the observations which he has made. But the right hon. Gentleman, above all things, dreads that this matter should be delayed. Now I will just touch upon that point. The right hon. Gentleman has said that he has not met any one who does not consider it highly desirable that the House should legislate upon the subject of the Government of India this year; and that it will be a great evil if such legislation is postponed. In support of this view he produces a private letter from Lord Dalhousie upon the subject. Now I do not consider such evidence as by any means conclusive, because the House knows that Lord Dalhousie has been connected with the system that now exists. That noble Earl is also surrounded by persons who are themselves interested in maintaining the present system. From his elevated position also in India--I do not mean his location at Simlah--but from his being by his station removed from the mass of the European population, and still more removed from the native population, I do not think it at all likely that Lord Dalhousie will be able to form a sounder opinion upon this question than persons who have never been in India. In my opinion, no evil can possibly arise from creating in the minds of the population of India a feeling that the question of Indian Government is considered by the House of Commons to be a grave and solemn question; and I solemnly believe that if the decision on the question be delayed for two years, so as to enable Parliament to make due inquiries as to the means of establishing a better form of government in India, it will create in the minds of all the intelligent natives of India a feeling of confidence and hope, and that whatever may be done by them in the way of agitation will be rather for the purpose of offering information in the most friendly and generous spirit, than of creating opposition to any Government legislation. However, the question of delay is one which the House in all probability will be called upon to decide on another occasion. But passing from that subject, I now come to the principle upon which the right hon. Gentleman founded his Motion. The speech of I he right hon. Gentleman was throughout that of an advocate of the Indian Government, as at present constituted; and, if Mr. Melville had said everything that could possibly be dragged into the case, he could not have made it more clearly appear than the right hon. Gentleman has done that the Government of India has been uniformly worthy of the confidence of the country. My view of this matter, after a good deal of observation, is, that the Indian Government, composed of two branches, which the right hon. Gentleman does not propose to amalgamate into one, is a Government of secrecy and irresponsibility to a degree that should not be tolerated in a country like this, where we have a constitutional and Parliamentary Government, I have not the least idea in any observations which I may make either in this House or elsewhere of bringing a charge against the East India Company--that is to say, against any individual member of the Board of Directors, as if they were anxious to misgovern India. I never had any such suspicion. I believe that the twenty-four gentlemen who constitute the Board of Directors would act just about as well as any other twenty-four persons elected by the same process, acting under the same influences, and surrounded by the same difficulties--having to act with another and independent body-- the Board of Control. Neither am I hostile to the Board of Control, because I think that the duty imposed upon it is greater than any such body can properly perform. The right hon. Gentleman, the enormous labours of whose office could not be accomplished by any one man, coming into office in December, and having to propose a new Government for India in the month of May or June, must have found it extremely difficult to make himself master of the question. But beyond this the House should bear in mind, that during the last thirty years there has been a new President of the Board of Control every two years. Nay, in the course of last year there were no less than three Presidents of the Board of Control. Thus that Board seems framed in such a manner as to make it altogether impossible that any one man should be able to conduct it in the way which it ought to be conducted. Beyond this, the President of that Board has to act in conjunction with the Court of Directors. Without saying anything which would impute blame to any party, it must be obvious that two such bodies combined can never carry on the government of India wisely, and in accordance with those principles which have been found necessary in the government of this country. The right hon. Gentleman has been obliged to admit that the theory of the old Government of India was one which could not be defended, and that everybody considers it ridiculous and childish. I am not at all certain that the one that is going to be established is in any degree better. It was in 1784 that this form of government was established, amid the fight of factions. In 1813 it was continued for twenty-years longer, during a time when the country was involved in desperate hostilities with France. In 1833 another Bill, continuing that form of government, passed through Parliament immediately after the hurricane which carried the Reform Bill. All these circumstances rendered it difficult for the Government, however honestly disposed, to pass the best measure for the government of India. But all the difficulties which then existed appear to me wholly to have vanished. Never has any question come before Parliament more entirely free from a complication of that nature, or one which the House has the opportunity of more quietly and calmly considering, than the question now before them. I should have been pleased if the right hon. Gentleman had given the House the testimony of some two or three persons on his own side of the question. But, as he has not done so, I will trouble the House by referring to some authorities in support of my own views. I will first refer to the work of Mr. Campbell, which has already been quoted by the right hon. Gentleman. It is a very interesting book, and gives a great deal of information. That writer says-- 'The division of authority between the Board of Control and the Court of Directors, the large number of directors, and the peculiar system by which measures are originated in the Court, sent for approval to the Board, then back again to the Court, and so on, render all deliverances very slow and difficult; and when a measure is discussed in India, the announcement that it has been referred to the Court of Directors is often regarded as an indefinite postponement. In fact, it is evident that (able and experienced as are many of the individual directors) twenty-four directors in one place, and a Board of Control in another, are not likely very speedily to unite in one opinion upon any doubtful point.' That, I think, is likely to be the opinion of any man on the Government of India. There is another authority to which I will refer, Mr. Kaye, who has also written a very good book. It was actually distributed by the Court of Directors; I have therefore a right to consider it a fair representation of their views of what was done, especially as the Chairman of the Court has given me a copy of the book. Mr. Kaye, in referring to the double Government which existed in Bengal in 1772, makes use of these expressions. When I first read them, I thought they were a quotation from my own speeches:-- 'But enlightened as were the instructions thus issued to the supervisors, the supervision was wholly inadequate to the requirements of the case. The double Government, as I have shown, did not work well. It was altogether a sham and an imposture. It was soon to be demolished at a blow.... The double Government had, by this time, fulfilled its mission. It had introduced an incredible amount of disorder and corruption into the State, and of poverty and wretchedness among the people; it had embarrassed our finances, and soiled our character, and was now to be openly recognised as a failure.' This is only as to Bengal. The following are the words he uses in respect to the double Government at home:-- 'In respect of all transactions with foreign Powers--all matters bearing upon questions of peace and war--the President of the Board of Control has authority to originate such measures as he and his colleagues in the Ministry may consider expedient. In such cases he acts presumedly in concert with the Secret Committee of the Court of Directors--a body composed of the chairman, deputy-chairman, and senior member of the Court. The Secret Committee sign the despatches which emanate from the Board, but they have no power to withhold or to alter them. They have not even the power to record their dissent. In fact, the functions of the Committee are only those which, to use the words of a distinguished member of the Court (the late Mr. Tucker), who deplored the mystery and the mockery of a system which obscures responsibility and deludes public opinion, could as well be performed "by a secretary and a seal."' Further on he says-- 'In judging of responsibility, we should remember that the whole foreign policy of the East India Company is regulated by the Board of Control; that in the solution of the most vital questions--questions of peace and war--affecting the finances of the country, and, therefore, the means of internal improvement, the Court of Directors have no more power than the mayor and aldermen of any corporate town. India depends less on the will of the twenty-four than on one man's caprice--here to-day and gone to-morrow--knocked over by a gust of Parliamentary uncertainty-- the mistaken tactics of a leader, or negligence of a whipper-in. The past history of India is a history of revenue wasted and domestic improvement obstructed by war.' This is very much what I complain of. I admit the right of the East India Company to complain of many things done by the Board of Control; and I am of opinion, that if the House left the two bodies to combat one another, they would at last come to an accurate perception of what they both are. The East India Company accused the Board of Control of making wars and squandering the revenue which the Company collected. But Mr. Kaye said that Mr. Tucker deplored the mystery and the mockery of a system which obscured responsibility and deluded public opinion. It is because of this concealment, of this delusion practised upon public opinion, of this evasion of public responsibility and Parliamentary control, that you have a state of things in India which the hon. Member for Guildford (Mr. Mangles) has described, when he says that the Company manages the revenues, collects the taxes, and gets from 20,000,000_l_. to 30,000,000_l_. a-year, and nobody knows how much more. But, whatever it is, such is the system of foreign policy pursued by the Board of Control--that is to say, by the gentlemen who drop down there for six or eight or twelve months, never beyond two years--that, whatever revenues are collected, they are squandered on unnecessary and ruinous wars, till the country is brought to a state of embarrassment and threatened bankruptcy. That is the real point which the House will have to consider. With regard to some of the details of the Government plan, we should no doubt all agree: but this question of divided responsibility, of concealed responsibility, and of no responsibility whatever, that is the real pith of the matter. The House should take care not to be diverted from that question. [Mr. Mangles: 'Produce your own plan.'] An hon. Gentleman has asked me to produce my plan. I will not comply with that request, but will follow the example of a right hon. Gentleman, a great authority in this House, who once said, when similarly challenged, that he should produce his plan when he was called in. I believe that the plan before the House to-night was concocted by the Board of Control and the hon. Member for Guildford and his Colleagues I shall, therefore, confine myself at present to the discussion of that plan. Some persons are disposed very much (at least I am afraid so) to undervalue the particular point which I am endeavouring to bring before the House; and they seem to fancy that it does not much matter what shall be the form of government in India, since the population of that country will always be in a condition of great impoverishment and much suffering; and that whatever is done must be done there, and that after all--after having conquered 100,000,000 of people--it is not in our power to interfere for the improvement of their condition. Mr. Kaye, in his book, commences the first chapters with a very depreciating account of the character of the Mogul Princes, with a view to show that the condition of the people of India was at least as unfavourable under them as under British rule. I will cite one or two cases from witnesses for whose testimony the right hon. Gentleman (Sir C. Wood) must have respect. Mr. Marshman is a gentleman who is well known as possessing a considerable amount of information on Indian affairs, and has, I presume, come over on purpose to give his evidence on the subject. He was editor of a newspaper which was generally considered throughout India to be the organ of the Government; in that newspaper, the _Friend of India_, bearing the date 1st April, 1852, the following statement appears:-- 'No one has ever attempted to contradict the fact that the condition of the Bengal peasantry is almost as wretched and degraded as it is possible to conceive--living in the most miserable hovels, scarcely fit for a dog-kennel, covered with tattered rags, and unable, in too many instances, to procure more than a single meal a-day for himself and family. The Bengal ryot knows nothing of the most ordinary comforts of life. We speak without exaggeration when we affirm, that if the real condition of those who raise the harvest, which yields between 3,000,000_l_. and 4,000,000_l_. a-year, was fully known, it would make the ears of one who heard thereof tingle.' It has been said that in the Bengal Presidency the natives are in a better condition than in the other Presidencies; and I recollect that when I served on the Cotton Committee the evidence taken before it being confined to the Bombay and Madras Presidencies, it was then said that if evidence had been taken about the Bengal Presidency it would have appeared that the condition of the natives was better. But I believe that it is very much the same in all the Presidencies. I must say that it is my belief that if a country be found possessing a most fertile soil, and capable of bearing every variety of production, and that, notwithstanding, the people are in a state of extreme destitution and suffering, the chances are that there is some fundamental error in the government of that country. The people of India have been subjected by us, and how to govern them in an efficient and beneficial manner is one of the most important points for the consideration of the House. From the Report of the Indian Cotton Committee it appears that nearly every witness--and the witnesses were nearly all servants of the Company--gave evidence as to the state of destitution in which the cultivators of the soil lived. They were in such an abject condition that they were obliged to give 40 or 50 per cent, to borrow money to enable them to put seed into the ground. I can, if it were necessary, bring any amount of evidence to prove the miserable condition of the cultivators, and that in many places they have been compelled to part with their personal ornaments. Gentlemen who have written upon their condition have drawn a frightful picture, and have represented the persons employed to collect the revenue as coming upon the unhappy cultivators like locusts, and devouring everything. With regard to the consumption of salt, looking at the _Friend of India_, of April 14, 1853, it appears that it is on the decline. In the year 1849-50, the consumption was 205,517 tons; in 1850-51, 186,410 tons; and in 1851-2, 146,069 tons. Thus, in the short period of three years, there has been a decrease in the consumption amounting to 59,448 tons, which will involve a loss to the revenue of 416,136_l_. [Footnote: The _Friend of India_ was incorrect in this statement the real decline in the consumption of salt was about 12,000 tons.] Salt is one of those articles that people in India will use as much of as they can afford, and the diminution in the consumption appears to me to be a decided proof of the declining condition of the population, and that must affect adversely the revenue of the Indian Government. Now there is another point to which the right hon. Gentleman has slightly alluded; it is connected with the administration of justice, and I will read from the _Friend of India_ a case illustrative of the efficiency of the police. The statement is so extraordinary that it would be incredible but for the circumstance of its having appeared in such a respectable journal:-- 'The affair itself is sufficiently uninteresting. A native Zemindar had, or fancied he had, some paper rights over certain lands occupied by a European planter, and, as a necessary consequence, sent a body of armed retainers to attack his factory. The European resisted in the same fashion by calling out his retainers. There was a pitched battle, and several persons were wounded, if not slain; while the Darogah, the appointed guardian of the peace, sat on the roof of a neighbouring hut and looked on with an interest, the keenness of which was probably not diminished by the fact of his own immunity from the pains and perils of the conflict. There has been a judicial investigation, and somebody will probably be punished, if not by actual sentence, by the necessary disbursement of fees and douceurs, but the evil will not be thereby suppressed or even abated. The incident, trifling as it may appear--and the fact that it is trifling is no slight evidence of a disorganised state of society--is an epitome in small type of our Bengal police history. On all sides, and in every instance, we have the same picture--great offences, the police indifferent or inefficient, judicial investigations protracted till the sufferers regret that they did not patiently endure the injury, and somebody punished, but no visible abatement of the crime. The fact is, and it is beginning at last to be acknowledged everywhere, except perhaps at home, that Bengal does not need so much a "reform" or reorganisation of the police, as a police, a body of some kind, specially organised for the preservation of order. Why the change is so long postponed, no one, not familiar with the _arcana_ of Leadenhall-street and Cannon-row, can readily explain.' Mr. Marshman uses the expression, 'the incident, trifling as it may appear;' but I will ask the House if they can conceive a state of society in a country under the Government of England where a scene of violence such as has been described could be considered trifling? The right hon. Gentleman has, while admitting that the want of roads in some districts of India is a great evil, endeavoured to show that a great deal has been done to remedy the deficiency, and that on some roads the mails travel as fast as ten miles an hour. Now, I believe that if the speed were taken at five miles an hour, it would be nearer the truth; and I will beg the House to excuse me if I read another extract from the _Friend of India_ of April 14, 1853:-- 'The Grand Trunk, however, is the only road upon which a good speed has been attained, remarks being attached to all of the remainder strongly indicative of the want of improved means of communication. From Shergotty to Gyah, and Gyah to Patna, for instance, the pace is four miles and a half an hour; but then "the road is cutcha, and the slightest shower of rain renders it puddly and impracticable for speedy transit." From Patna to Benares the official account is the same, but the rate increases at one stage to five miles and a half. The southern roads are, however, in the worst condition, the mails travelling to Jelazore at three miles an hour, or less than a groom can walk; and even between Calcutta and Baraset the rate rises to only four miles and a half an hour, while everywhere we have such notices as "road intersected by numerous unbridged rivers and nullahs," "road has not been repaired for these many years," "road not repaired for years," the "road in so bad a state, and so much intersected by rivers and nullahs, that no great improvement in the speed of the mails can be effected." And yet the surplus Ferry Funds might, one would think, if economically administered, be sufficient to pay at least for the maintenance of the roads already in existence. New roads, we fear, are hopeless until Parliament fixes a _minimum_, which must be expended on them; and even then it may be allowed to accumulate, as the Parliamentary grant for education has done at Madras.' The right hon. Gentleman has referred to the subject of irrigation; and I hold in my hand an extract from the Report of the Commission which inquired into the subject. The Report states that-- 'The loss of revenue by the famine of 1832-33 is estimated at least at 1,000,000_l_. sterling; the loss of property at a far greater amount; of life, at 200,000 or 300,000; and of cattle, at 200,000 at the lowest, in Guntore alone, besides the ruin of 70,000 houses. The famine of the Northern Circars in 1833, and that of the north-western provinces of India at a later period, prove with irresistible force that irrigation in this country is properly a question, not of profit, but of existence.' The right hon. Gentleman has also quoted from a Report by Colonel Cotton on the subject of the embankment of the Kistna. Now, the embankment of the Kistna has been recommended as far back as the year 1792, and from that time has been repeatedly brought forward. The whole estimate for it is but 155,000_l_., and it was not until September, 1852, that the preliminary operations were commenced. I find this officer stating with respect to the district of Rajamundry, that if a particular improvement that had been recommended above twenty years ago had been carried out, it would have saved the lives of upwards of 100,000 persons who perished in the famine of 1837. I say that such facts as these are a justification of stronger language than any in which I have indulged in reference to the neglect of the Indian Government whether in this House or out of it. The right hon. gentleman candidly informs us that this very embankment has been recently stopped by order of the Madras Government, because the money was wanted for other purposes--the Burmese war, no doubt. In the year 1849 it was reported that Colonel Cotton wrote a despatch to the Madras Government, in which, after mentioning facts connected with the famines, he insisted, in strong and indignant language, that the improvements should go on. I believe that there was an allusion in the letter to the awkward look these things would have, pending the discussions on the Government of India, and I understand that it was agreed that the original letter, which countermanded the improvements, should be withdrawn, and that then the remonstrance from Colonel Cotton should also be withdrawn. A gentleman who has been in the Company's service, and who has for some time been engaged in improvements, chiefly in irrigation, writes in a private letter as follows:-- 'From my late investigations on this subject, I feel convinced that the state of our communications is the most important subject which calls for consideration. I reckon that India now pays, for want of cheap transit, a sum equal to the whole of the taxes; so that by reducing its cost to a tenth, which might easily be done, we should as good as abolish all taxes. I trust the Committees in England are going on well, in spite of the unbecoming efforts which have been made to circumscribe and quash their proceedings. Woe be to India, indeed, if this opportunity is lost! Much will depend upon you-- (the letter was not addressed to myself)-- and others now in England, who know India, and have a single eye to its welfare. It behoves you to do your utmost to improve this most critical time, and may God in his mercy overrule all the efforts of man for its good! What abominations, villanies, and idiotcies there still are in our system! Is there no hope, no possibility, of infusing a little fresh blood from some purer source into these bodies? (the ruling authorities). It is quite clear that no radical improvement can take place till some influences can be applied to stimulate our rulers to more healthy, wholesome action; health can never be looked for in a body constituted as the Court of Directors now is; nothing but torpid disease can be expected as matters now stand. With respect to the administration of justice, I shall not go at any length into that subject, because I hope it will be taken up by some other Gentleman much more competent than myself, and I trust that a sufficient answer will be given to what has been stated by the right hon. Gentleman. However, as far as I am able to understand, there appears to be throughout the whole of India, on the part of the European population, an absolute terror of coming under the Company's Courts for any object whatever. Within the last fortnight I have had a conversation with a gentleman who has seen a long period of service in India, and he declared it was hopeless to expect that Englishmen would ever invest their property in India under any circumstances which placed their interests at the disposal of those courts of justice. That is one reason why there appears no increase in the number of Europeans or Englishmen who settle in the interior of India for the purpose of investing their capital there. The right hon. Gentleman endeavoured to make an excuse on the ground that the Law Commission had done nothing. I was not in the House when the right hon. Member for Edinburgh (Mr. Macaulay) brought forward the Bill of 1833, but I understand it was stated that the Law Commission was to do wonders; yet now we have the evidence of the right hon. Gentleman the President of the Board of Control, that the Report of the Law Commission has ever since been going backwards and forwards, like an unsettled spirit, between this country and India. Mr. Cameron, in his evidence, said (I suppose it is slumbering somewhere on the shelves in the East India House) that the Court of
to this point that John Marshall brought in January, 1848, the news, so soon to travel far and wide, of the discovery of gold in the millrace at Coloma. The fort is now a museum maintained by the orders of the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. Here are stored reminiscences of the past; among them an old stage coach, riddled with bullets—placed there by ambitious highwaymen, and a prairie schooner with its old equipment reminds one of early overland history. [Illustration: UP THE INCLINE OF THE CROOKEDEST RAILWAY IN THE WORLD—CLIMBING MOUNT TAMALPAIS] [Illustration: THE MISSION DOLORES, SAN FRANCISCO—ESTABLISHED 1776] [Illustration: THIS IS A LILY POND IN THE GROUNDS OF ONE OF OAKLAND’S FOREMOST RESIDENTS] [Illustration: ON THE FOOT-HILLS OF THE COAST RANGE IN OAKLAND, ACROSS THE BAY FROM SAN FRANCISCO, ARE MANY BEAUTIFUL HOMES—HERE IS ONE OF THEM] Sacramento is a modern city with many miles of electric railway and paved streets running out to suburban orange and olive groves in the attractive suburbs, and past the capitol building and surrounding park. In the Crocker art gallery, established more than thirty years ago by Judge E. B. Crocker and Mrs. Crocker is a notable collection of paintings well worth the time of inspection by the art connoisseur. In this gallery of seven hundred paintings, chiefly by foreign artists, are to be found some of the canvases of Van Dyck, Murillo, Guido Reni, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, Tintorretto, Leonardo da Vinci, Luini, Sir Peter Lely and others, and some fine examples from Piloty, Kaulbach, Thomas Hill and other modern masters. In addition, are many folios of inestimable value, containing original drawings from old and modern masters which were secured from the studios and collectors in Europe during the Franco-Prussian war. There is also exhibited in the building a large and valuable collection of minerals, in cabinets, the property of the state of California. The gallery is open every day. [Illustration: THE CLAREMONT THE BEAUTIFUL HOTEL OF OAKLAND—BERKELEY] [Illustration: IN TIME OF PEACE PREPARE FOR WAR—DRILLING BLUE-JACKETS AT MARE ISLAND NAVY YARD] [Illustration: CROSSING CARQUINEZ STRAITS—THE SOUTHERN PACIFIC FERRY BOAT “SOLANO.” THE LARGEST TRAIN FERRY IN THE WORLD] [Illustration: THE DUCK SHOOTING ON THE SUISUN MARSHES IS FAMOUS—MANY PRIVATE GUN CLUBS HAVE THEIR PRESERVES HERE AND RECORD BAGS OF SPRIG AND MALLARD, TEAL AND CANVASBACK ARE SELDOM WANTING] From Sacramento there are numerous side-trips up into the gold mine region of California, to Grass Valley, Oroville, Placerville—regions that are known largely through the fascinating writings of Bret Harte. Around Oroville and along the Feather river may be seen that marvel of gold mining, the electric dredger. These monster burrowers are here eating their way steadily into the gold-bearing soil. In many places this work is going on industriously in the center of profitable bearing orchards, but the gold from within is found by this process to yield to greater profit than the golden fruit produced by trees on the surface. And then from Sacramento the great valley broadens out. To the north is the vast orchard region of Sutter county, and the great granaries of Colusa, Glenn and Tehama counties; south of the city, and close by, is the slough country, where in the fertile, fruitful ground—fertile as the valley of the Nile or the rich dike-inclosed country of Holland—are vast stretches given up to vegetable growing, especially of asparagus, celery and potatoes. This valley of the Sacramento is an empire with many principalities. Such a region in the Old World or in the New England or Middle States would have been as populous as the valleys of the Loire, or the Housatonic, or Susquehanna long before this. The foothill counties, tributary to the great interior valley, are rich in gold and other minerals. The value of these streams, snow-fed, coming down to water the valley is fully appreciated, and power generated on the south fork of the Yuba river is used to-day to run the electric railways of cities by the bay—over 220 miles away. Off here to the right, beyond Marysville, as well as on through the Sierra slopes, is the early orange producing region; oranges go east from this section before Thanksgiving, and practically the whole crop is shipped by Christmas. The counties of this valley yield annually over one half of the entire output of the deciduous fruits of California. At Chico is the home of the late General Bidwell, Rancho Chico, another one of California’s principalities. Here at Chico is the plant introduction garden and station of the United States Department of Agriculture, chosen for its wonderful advantages of soil and climate. [Illustration: HOTEL AT BYRON HOT SPRINGS—ANOTHER ONE OF NATURE’S SANITARIUMS] [Illustration: WITHIN THE PALISADE OF SUTTER’S FORT, BUILT BY GENERAL JOHN A. SUTTER ABOUT 1830] [Illustration: THE CAPITOL AT SACRAMENTO—VARIETIES OF HUNDREDS OF RARE AND SEMI-TROPIC TREES AND FLOWERS ORNAMENT THE SPACIOUS GROUNDS] [Illustration: NEW PLANTS DISCOVERED WHILE YOU WAIT—GOVERNMENT PLANT INTRODUCTION STATION AT CHICO] [Illustration: IN THE CAÑON OF THE UPPER SACRAMENTO—WHERE EVERY CURVE DISCLOSES SCENES OF ENTRANCING BEAUTY] [Illustration: A NOT UNUSUAL SCENE—VICTORS OVER A WORTHY FOE] [Illustration: CASTLE CRAGS—VOLCANIC PALISADES ON THE SHASTA ROUTE] And then on, up the Sacramento valley, northerly, the road goes through Tehama, Red Bluff, and Redding—prosperous young cities, centers for rich mines, vast grain fields, orchards and sugar-pine forests; carrying the traveler through a region of marvelous scenic value—Castle Crags, Shasta Springs, with its crystal water bubbling up near the track, and peerless views of snow-capped Shasta. Here are opportunities for fishing and hunting and genuine alpine mountain climbing, for scaling the summit of Shasta is to western sportsmen more or less of a duty, much as that which lures the Alpine traveler to climb the Jungfrau. For this task of muscular devotion, travelers should stop off at Sisson, where there is a snug inn, open winter and summer, where mountain climbing parties can be supplied readily with a full equipment of things needful for the not difficult ascent. [Illustration: MOSSBRAE FALLS, OPPOSITE THE TRACK NEAR SHASTA SPRINGS ON THE WAY BETWEEN SAN FRANCISCO AND PORTLAND] [Illustration: AT SHASTA SPRINGS WHERE ONE OF NATURE’S FOUNTAINS BOILS UP CLOSE BY THE RAILWAY—AN ALL-YEAR-AROUND RESORT] [Illustration: SNOW-CAPPED MOUNT SHASTA 14,444 FEET. ONE OF THE WORLD’S WONDERS] [Illustration: FOR MILES THE TRAVELER KEEPS IN VIEW THE SNOWY SUMMIT OF SHASTA. EACH CHANGING PICTURE ATTRACTIVE, IMPRESSIVE AND ENDURING] [Illustration: MUIR’S PEAK, NEAR SISSONS, ONE OF THE VOLCANIC CONES THAT MAKE THIS REGION FAMOUS FOR ITS SCENIC BEAUTY] And then on and up, over into Oregon, across the Klamath river, that temptingly points out the way to the Klamath lakes and other hunting grounds, so vast and so filled with game worth pursuing, as to make the Adirondacks seem like a children’s play-ground in comparison. Away from the road, near here, too, is Crater lake, that wonder of wonders; a lake of crystal pure water resting upon the crest of an extinct volcano, without inlet or outlet. [Illustration: WHAT SPORTSMEN MAY FIND IN A THOUSAND CAÑONS OF SOUTHERN AND WESTERN OREGON] On the train goes, winding and twisting on and upward and downward, into Oregon through the cañons of the Siskiyou range, with the never-to-be-forgotten sight of the fertile valley of the Rogue river, with farmhouses that look like New England, with their white paint and green blinds; with fruitful orchards, long stretches of green fields, glimpses of mining operations, and always mountains and forest, and forest and mountains, near and far. Here, in southern and eastern Oregon, is a comparatively new paradise for the sportsman, and a wondrous scenic region. Here are chances for stop-over trips, long to be remembered, with prospects of big game trophies that will afford countless texts for hair-raising stories at home. [Illustration: OVER THE SISKIYOUS INTO OREGON THROUGH MOUNTAIN SCENERY OF STUPENDOUS GRANDEUR] This Rogue river valley country, of which thriving Ashland and fast-growing Medford—cities of stone and brick—are the centers, sends broadcast, annually, thousands of boxes of the finest apples, pears and peaches. These rolling valleys and forest clearings make an unexcelled fruit and farming country. Jacksonville, off to the west, is on the old California trail; the first gold discovery of Oregon was near here, on Jackson creek. Over this trail, which the railroad closely follows, traveled adventurous trappers and hunters, and after that, the gold seekers, before the days of wagon-roads or railways. The road skirts the red waters of the Rogue—originally called Rouge by French-Canadian trappers of the Hudson’s Bay Company—as far as Grant’s Pass, a bustling city that is the center of a rich lumber, gold and copper mining and farming country. The Rogue and its tributaries, like other Oregon rivers, are fast flowing and never failing streams, with rapids and waterfalls at frequent intervals, fringed by forest trees that help make pictures at every turn. Here, at Gold Ray, an enterprising electric power company has developed tremendous power, which will be used for the many mining industries, as well as in the progressive ranches and homes, through all this region. [Illustration: HOUSE BOATING ON THE WILLAMETTE, WITH ITS CLEAR WATERS, ITS WELL TIMBERED AND PICTURESQUE SHORES, IS A JOY OFTEN INDULGED IN BY MANY OREGONIANS] [Illustration: ALONG ASHLAND CREEK ARE MANY SCENES RIPE FOR AN ARTIST’S CANVAS] [Illustration: TABLE ROCK ON ROGUE RIVER HAS BEEN A STRIKING LANDMARK SINCE MAN FIRST TRAILED THIS COUNTRY] [Illustration: SHEEP RAISING IS AN IMPORTANT AND GROWING INDUSTRY OF OREGON] Around Roseburg, about two hundred miles southerly from Portland, are vast forest resources, with outlying valleys and cañons and mines and farms that help to make this a thriving place. Long before reaching here the road crosses and recrosses the Umpqua river, which flows through its fertile valley northwesterly into the sea. At Cottage Grove, as at other points along here, there are more signs of Oregon’s rich mines, signs of the placer camps of early days, as well as of the more recent developments in quartz mining. The records show that gold to the amount of $120,000,000 was washed from the streams of Oregon during the early ’60s. During recent years there have been many gold strikes, and to-day all through these ranges prospectors and expert agents for mining capitalists are searching and locating the precious metal. The famous North Pole mine, for example, ranks among the largest and is valued at over fifteen million dollars. At Cottage Grove, the road first touches the picturesque Willamette river, following its course to Eugene—seat of the University of Oregon—crossing it at Junction City, touching it again at Albany—a big shipping point for luscious Oregon prunes; again at Salem, the state capital, a city of 15,000 people, and at Oregon City. [Illustration: THE GRANT’S PASS MINE—IN THE CENTER OF A RICH GOLD AND COPPER DISTRICT] [Illustration: COW CREEK CAÑON NEAR WEST FORK—ALL DOWN THE RAVINE THE TORRENT RACES IN RAPID RIVALRY WITH THE TRAIN] [Illustration: WHAT SPORTSMEN MAY FIND IN A THOUSAND CAÑONS OF SOUTHERN AND WESTERN OREGON] At Oregon City are the falls of the Willamette, where the power of the river is harnessed for the use of many factories. A ship canal has been built around the falls. The Willamette valley is one of the most fertile and most beautiful river regions of any land, stretching southward from Portland across eight counties and occupying four million acres of rich land. It is a natural center for dairying and diversified farming. A total failure of crops has never been known. [Illustration: SHOTS, PHOTOGRAPHIC AND OTHERWISE, AT THE OREGON PHEASANT: THE PRETTIEST, PROUDEST AND GAMEST OF ITS TRIBE] [Illustration: HERE THE CONDOR POWER COMPANY HAS HARNESSED THE SWIFT FLOWING ROGUE] [Illustration: THE WATERS OF THE WILLAMETTE MIRROR MANY PEACEFUL SUNSETS] The Willamette itself is broad and swift flowing, with banks lined with forest trees of perpetual verdure. From north to south the river meanders, now lazily, now with a rush of leaping waters. It passes through a delightful pastoral country where the farmhouses are framed in fruit orchards and sleek cattle feed by the river pastures. Now and then the banks rise sheer in tree-crowned cliffs fifty feet in height. There are plenty of fish and wild life abounds. There are many canoe clubs at Portland and during the summer the Willamette is crowded with the fleet of light craft while trips up and down the river are in great favor, sometimes extending for days and covering a voyage of one hundred miles, the distance by river between Portland and Albany. From Portland to Salem the capital city, a steamer plies the fifty miles of waterway. House boats, often of luxurious design, are in high favor on the quieter reaches. [Illustration: COW CREEK CAÑON, DESPITE ITS UNROMANTIC TITLE. HAS FEW RIVALS IN ITS PICTURESQUE BEAUTY] [Illustration: PLACER MINING IN SOUTHERN OREGON, WASHING DOWN THE GOLD GRAVELED BANKS] [Illustration: A TYPICAL SCENE IN PASTORAL OREGON THAT RECALLS THE BERKSHIRE HILLS] [Illustration: THE FALLS OF THE WILLAMETTE] [Illustration: OREGON’S CAPITOL IS AT SALEM, A CITY OF FIFTEEN THOUSAND] [Illustration: ON THE WILLAMETTE NEAR OREGON CITY, MANY MILLS AND FACTORIES ARE RUN BY POWER FROM THE FALLS] At Portland, near which the Willamette joins the Columbia, it becomes the city’s harbor from which the average outgoing cargo runs up to seven thousand five hundred tons. Portland, the “rose city,” where roses bloom in profusion on Christmas day, came prominently before the public eye of late with the centennial celebration of the great overland journey of the explorers Lewis and Clark. It is a beautiful city, superbly situated, with surroundings that suggest wealth and culture, and promises everywhere for a glorious future. The streets, outside the business quarter, are shaded by overarching trees and lined with beautiful villas set in green lawns and flower beds of riotous, fragrant bloom. From Portland Heights, reached by the car lines, the panorama is superb, the view including Mount Rainier, a hundred miles away to the north, with the blue barrier of the Cascades stretching to Mount Jefferson, a hundred miles to the south, snow-clad Mount Saint Helens and Mount Hood, the Columbia river and its giant gorge, the tributary Willamette and the green of the nearer low-lands, gleaming here and there with the lakes of the Columbia valley; a prospect declared by Caspar Whitney, to be the grandest and most interesting in natural beauty he had ever seen. Higher yet is Council Crest, once a favored place for Indian conferences, fifteen hundred feet above the city; reached by the street cars; the projected site of a great hotel. [Illustration: IN PORTLAND ROSES ADORN THE HOMES OF ALL WHO DESIRE THEM] [Illustration: THE CITY OF PORTLAND SHOWS THE STIR OF PROGRESS AND COMMERCIAL DEVELOPMENT] [Illustration: SACAJAWEA. THE BIRD WOMAN. THE FAITHFUL GUIDE OF LEWIS AND CLARK] [Illustration: SIXTH STREET PORTLAND IS TYPICAL OF THIS PROGRESSIVE CITY. THE HOTEL PORTLAND AND “THE OREGONIAN” BUILDING ON THE LEFT] In Portland is the constant stir of progress and commercial development—it is in the air. With the completion of a forty-foot ship channel from the city to the sea, to which end surveys are being conducted by the government, the largest vessels will have no difficulty in making Portland. Business enterprises of all sorts thrive; the building up of attractive suburbs, and of seaside resorts such as Long Beach and Yaquina bay—all these mean that here is a city of 160,000 people that will bear watching. There is no use hurrying through Portland; there is too much to be seen and done; you cannot overlook the fast-flowing Columbia, with its close-bordered forests and its matchless cascades and varied scenery. Powerful and comfortable steamers stem the torrent of the mighty river and at the rapids of the Dalles, close to the mystical, mythical Bridge of the Gods, a system of locks has challenged and overcome Nature’s mastery of her aquatic highway. Portland is famous for its hotels and hospitality, its fine streets and buildings, its clubs, its schools and churches. Civic pride is evident everywhere; art galleries, a notable library, beautiful avenues, parks and homes, with an excellent car system reaching far out into its pleasant suburbs, all speak of culture, wealth and progress. Here the traveler may rest and think over his trip and consider his return journey, providing this western land so seemingly new, so ever green, so bustling with activity, so wide-awake, so climatically glorious, does not hold him, as it has held many others, in bonds that they would not break: We have seen a world! We have chased the sun From sea to sea; but the task is done. We are hushed with wonder, we stand apart, We stand in silence; the heaving heart Fills full of heaven, and then the knees Go down in worship on the golden sands With faces seaward, and with folded hands We gaze on the boundless white Balboa seas. [Illustration: DAWN ON MOUNT HOOD] [Illustration: SUNSET, THE MAGAZINE OF THE WEST. PUBLISHED MONTHLY AT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA—ONE DOLLAR AND FIFTY CENTS YEARLY—FOR SALE BY NEWSDEALERS EVERYWHERE] ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY H. C. TIBBITTS SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA Transcriber’s Notes --Retained publication information from the printed exemplar (this eBook is in the public domain in the country of publication.) --Silently corrected several typos. --Provided all images resized and oriented for use on a portable eBook reader. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Road of a Thousand Wonders, by Passenger Dept. Southern Pacific Co * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD OF A THOUSAND WONDERS * *** This file should be named 48407-0.txt or 48407-0.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/8/4/0/48407/ Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Stephen Hutcheson, Carol Spears, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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, fearing the scathing words of the N.C.O. more than the whistling bullets, slid over the mound of displaced sand-bags into the crater of the recently exploded shell, and scrambled up the other side. Twenty paces more and Setley found himself in the front line trench. Almost mechanically he mounted the fire-step, rested the barrel of his rifle between two spaced sand-bags that formed a loophole, and waited. "Here they come!" shouted an excited voice. Standing out clearly against the glare of half a dozen star-shells came on dense masses of German infantry. The Huns advanced slowly, almost hesitatingly. There were no shouts of "Deutschland über alles!" that characterized the earlier attacks. The words were a hollow mockery--and the Huns knew it. They had now a wholesome respect for the British Tommy. It was mainly fear of their officers, who kept at the heels of their men and held revolvers ready to shoot down any who refused to charge, that made the attack develop. In front came two men, masked and bearing metal cylinders resembling exaggerated packs upon their shoulders. In place of a rifle and bayonet they held a length of flexible hose. The Huns were about to use liquid fire in their attempt to oust the British from their trenches. Supporting these perambulating torches were a dozen or more bombers, while close at their heels came men armed with rifles and bayonets. With the exception of the mud and numerous shell-craters there was little in the way of obstacles to impede their advance, for almost the whole of the wire entanglements fronting the British parapet had been blown away by shell-fire. Setley's impression at the unaccustomed sight was that the brunt of the attack was about to fall on his immediate front. Suddenly the whole length of the British trench burst into a line of crackling flame as the Tommies commenced independent rapid fire. Some maxims, skilfully concealed in sand-bagged emplacements, added to the din with their quick pop-pop-pop. The Huns, erroneously trusting that their heavy guns had battered the British trenches into shapeless mounds, and thinking that the Tommies had been either blown to fragments by the terrific artillery bombardment or had been compelled to seek refuge in their dug-outs, were met by the full blast of the rifle and machine-gun fire. Ralph was soon surprised to find that he was slipping another clip of cartridges into the magazine of his rifle. He was now as cool as a cucumber. The months of infantry training had not been thrown away. With a visible enemy facing him he realized that the time had come when he could strike a blow for King and Country, instead of being subjected to shell-fire from a distant and unseen foe without being able to raise a hand in self-defence. The attack was doomed to failure from the start. One of the men bearing the liquid fire apparatus was on his face, his head and shoulders buried in mud, while his diabolical contrivance, which had evidently been perforated by a bullet, had taken fire and was blazing furiously. The bombers hurled their missiles prematurely, most of the bombs falling short; while the infantry, mown down in heaps, wavered, the survivors beginning to give way. Above the rattle of musketry a whistle rang out loud and clear. "Come on, boys!" shouted an officer, leaping on to the parapet, to topple backwards with a bullet through his brain. Undeterred, the Wheatshires poured over the shattered breastwork of sand-bags. With an inspiring British cheer the infantry surged ver the top like a huge, irresistible breaker. The opportune moment for delivering a counter-attack had arrived. Well spent had been those months of active training. The Wheatshires, every man a passable athlete, literally swarmed over the parapet. With their bayonets gleaming in the ruddy glare and preceded by the regimental bombers the khaki-clad troops, dexterously threading their way through the gaps in the barbed wire, charged irresistibly against the already broken enemy. A wave of thrilling enthusiasm swept over Private Setley. The chance of actually doing something, of getting clear of the imprisoning walls of slimy mire and coming to grips with the Hun had come. The studiously polite and law-abiding bank-clerk was transformed into a fighting Tommy. The lust of primeval combat was upon him. He saw red. Of what happened during the next two minutes Setley had but a faint and hazy notion. Bombs hurled by the retreating Huns fell around him. Once the blast from an exploding missile lifted his steel helmet from his head. He remembered putting it straight with his left hand and noticing that the fingers were covered with a dark, moist, warm fluid. A man, keeping pace with him, suddenly dropped his rifle and fell on his face. Setley leapt over the slightly inclined bayonet and held on, the desire to stop and assist a fallen comrade being hardly existent. For the time being his sole desire was to overtake one of those field-grey forms showing dimly through the smoke. The enemy first-line trenches at last--and the Huns were making a stand. A machine-gun, one of many, was pumping out nickel almost on Setley's immediate front. Hostile bombers were redoubling their efforts. In cold blood the lad would have thought twice, perhaps many times, before facing that deadly menace, but carried away in the mad rush he pressed forward, scarce noticing the weight of his rifle and bayonet. A severed, coiled strand of barbed wire caught the puttee of his left foot. With a vicious jerk he freed himself from the encumbrance, leaving half a yard of mud-plastered cloth upon the sharp barb. Two yards in front of him was a burly German bomber with a bomb poised ready to hurl. Regardless of the fact that the explosion of the missile would to an almost certainty annihilate him, the Hun threw the bomb. Setley caught it on the flat blade of his bayonet and threw it aside, where it burst ten yards to the right under a tall, bearded Prussian. The next instant the thrower received six inches of cold steel right in the centre of his chest. Setley had made a mistake. It was a matter of considerable difficulty to withdraw the blade. He remembered too late the warning of the drill-instructors--when delivering a body thrust aim below the ribs. Before he could disengage the steel another German commenced a furious blow with the butt-end of his rifle. In the midst of the swing of the weapon a shot rang out within a few inches of Setley's ear, and the Hun, with a curious look of surprise on his sullen features, staggered forward. The descending rifle-butt struck Setley's helmet a glancing blow and, missing his left shoulder, sank deeply into the mud. "So much for Buckingham: off with his head," yelled Alderhame, as he ejected the still smoking cartridge-case from the breach of his rifle. "How's that, my festive?" "Thanks," replied Setley briefly; then over the hostile parapet the two comrades surged, bending low as they crouched behind their ready bayonets. The deep and narrow German trench was crowded with men--dead, wounded, and living. Some of the latter were putting up a stiff fight, like wild animals at bay. Others, with the dismal and monotonous whine of "Mercy, Kamerad!" were holding their hands high above their heads, the bombs taking toll of brave men and cowards alike. Following at the heels of two of the Wheatshires' bombers, Setley, Alderhame, George Anderson, and two others, made their way along a traverse, the riflemen firing at the side of the bombers. At intervals the latter stopped to hurl their deadly missiles down the steep and steeply shelving entrances to the German dug-outs. Rounding a sand-bagged traverse the party entered a bay in which was a machine-gun, with its crew of dead and dying lying around the silent weapon. A few paces further on a tall, bearded Hun barred the way. "Hands up!" yelled Ginger. The man threw down his rifle and complied. As the Tommies surged past Anderson took possession of the discarded weapon and tossed it over the parapet. "Keep 'em up!" he continued, addressing his prisoner. "A little of that'll do you no 'arm. You bide 'ere till you're told to shift." A shot rang out, and one of the British bombers dropped. His companion hurled a bomb, while Setley and Alderhame pushed forward towards a temporary barrier of sand-bags hastily piled on the floor of the trench. Beyond were three Huns, one of whom had just fired the fatal shot; but the avenging bomb had already done its work. Standing on the parados was a captain of the Wheatshires. "Back, men!" he ordered. "Don't get out of touch with the rest of the company. Secure your prisoners and retire." "Retire, be hanged!" muttered George. "Wot's to prevent us going on to Berlin? Eh, you treacherous swine, wot's the game?" He clapped his hand to his ear. One portion of the lobe was missing. The man he had taken prisoner had drawn a small revolver from his pocket and had fired at five paces at his captor while the latter's back was turned. With a yell Ginger rushed at the recreant Hun. Once more the man's hands were raised above his head, and again the dolorous "Mercy, Kamerad; me haf wife and six children!" "Liar!" shouted the now furious Tommy, giving the treacherous Boche a generous amount of cold steel. "You've a widow an' six orphans!" Reluctantly, the Wheatshires quitted the hostile trenches and made their way back across No Man's Land. In many cases their officers had to push them towards their own lines. Having made good their footing in the German defences, the Tommies did not relish the idea of abandoning the ground. It did not occur to them that the captured trench would form a dangerous salient, liable to be enfiladed and levelled flat with hostile shells before it could be properly consolidated. "How about grub?" enquired Penfold, as the men regained the safety of their own lines. "There's no barrage now? Why can't they bring our tommy up to us?" "Could do with a good meal myself," said Sefton. "Fortunately, we were served out with bully-beef before we arrived. You can have some of mine." "Thanks, awfully," replied his new chum. "I'll accept; but, remember, it's bad policy. Generosity is all very well, but here it's each man for himself in the grub line. You can't blame a half-starving fellow sneaking any food that he finds lying about, you know." "How is it that you're short of rations?" asked Alderhame. "Goodness only knows. The Huns were going it pretty hot all day and during the earlier part of this evening. Perhaps our ration party copped it. Everything has to be brought up by hand in this section of the line," replied Penfold. "Well, let's foot it, before the guns start again. The Boches will be pretty wild after this little affair." Mingled with a jostling throng of exultant Tommies and dejected prisoners, the three made their way along the communication trench to their dug-out. "What luck!" ejaculated Penfold, stopping short at a heap of disordered sand-bags and splintered timber that marked the site of their temporary abode. "Our dug-out has been properly strafed. We would have all gone West by this time if we'd been inside. But I say, you fellows; what price grub, now?" CHAPTER IV GRUB PENFOLD spoke of his escape without emotion. He had been long enough check by jowl with death to express no surprise. He had merely remarked that it was a lucky chance that the occupants of the shelled dug-out had not been inside when the heavy howitzer missile had demolished it. What did seriously annoy him was the loss of the promised food. Ralph Setley, although by this time ravenously hungry, was fervently thankful for his escape. Already the reaction of the raid into the German trenches was beginning to tell. Shorn of excitement of the wild rush over the top, the horrors of that nocturnal excursion rose up in his mind. The knowledge that he had bayoneted a fellow-creature, although he were an enemy and a brutal Hun, worried him. "Suppose the fellow would have done me in if I hadn't got him first," he soliloquized. Then, aloud: "What are you jabbering about, Alderhame?" The former actor was stamping up and down the duck-boards, now encrusted with a thin coating of ice:-- "Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot." "That's _As You Like It!_ chum. It aptly describes our condition. Horribly cold, and benefits in the shape of bully-beef gone, though not forgotten. Where's our next lodging?" The stream of prisoners and wounded Tommies had now dwindled. Penfold, addressing a sergeant, stated his case. "D'ye think I'm a Cook's tourist guide?" snapped the N.C.O. "Turn in where you can. There are a good many half empty dug-outs now, I'm thinking." A shell shrieked overhead. The Huns were putting up a barrage, the shrapnel falling amongst their own men, who, prisoners in the hands of the British, were being escorted to the "Advance cages." "In here," said Penfold, making a dive for the nearest entrance. Alderhame followed close at his heels, then Setley and George Anderson, the latter still grousing at the loss of a quarter of an inch of his ear. "Anyone at home?" enquired Penfold. He pushed aside the covering to the sloping tunnel and entered the dug-out, which in point of size and contents was much the same as his demolished mud-hole--the damp steaming straw, the pungent fumes of the charcoal brazier, the moisture dripping through the timber-shored roof, and the guttering candle--a typical Tommy's barrack-room on the Somme Front. Seated on an upturned ammunition-case and with his feet resting on another tin box, in order to keep them out of the slime, was a young, pale-faced, dark-haired soldier He was busily engaged in writing with an indelible pencil certain words of deeper violet hue, betraying the fact that the paper shared the general failing of the subterranean abode--it was moist: uncommonly so. So engrossed was the writer that for some moments he "carried on" with his task. Then looking up, and seeing strange faces, he exclaimed, in a lisping drawl: "I say, you've made a mistake. This isn't your caboodle." "No mistake, chummy," replied Penfold firmly. "We've been shelled out. We crave your hospitality. How many men in this dug-out?" "There were eight this morning," replied the youth: "Where are the others?" "Ask me another." "I will," rejoined Penfold, depositing his rifle on a bench. "Have they left any grub?" "Wish they had," was the grim answer. Then, with more eagerness than he had hitherto shown, he asked: "Have you any food? I haven't had a bite since this morning. Finished the whole of my ration, including jam, thinking that the fresh stuff would be in--but it isn't!" "You're welcome to a share of ours, laddie," remarked Alderhame, "which happens to be nixes." Ralph sat down on a bundle of straw, having first appropriated the late occupant's pack as a pillow. He was feeling horribly tired. His feet and hands were numbed with the cold. His saturated clothes were throwing off wisps of muggy vapour. Even a huge rat pattering on the muddy floor and scampering through the straw hardly troubled him, and a few hours previously he would have gone twenty yards to avoid one. In his drowsiness he found himself contemplating the latest of his many new comrades. "I'll bet that chap's a Jew," he thought. Setley was right in his surmise. Sidney Bartlett was the grandson of a Polish refugee who had become a naturalized Englishman and, dropping the name of Bariniski, had successfully engaged in business in Birmingham. Like many of the Hebrew race, young Bartlett was a patriot and a staunch supporter of the land of his adoption. When the call to arms came he rallied to the Colours, only to be sent back until he was sufficiently old to serve in His Majesty's Forces. Only three years previously Sidney was at a large day school, and there occurred an incident that was to influence his conduct at the Somme Front. For some weeks the lad was persistently absent from school. The head master constantly received notes to the effect that Sidney was kept at home through domestic troubles, in which a grandmother figured largely. The caligraphy arousing his suspicions, the head wrote to the lad's father, and then the "cat was out of the bag." One afternoon Bartlett Senior, accompanied by his errant son, came to the head master's study. "Now, Sidney," said his sire, solemnly, "I vant you to tell de trut'--de whole trut', mind. Later on, in bizness, Sidney, you may tell a lie; but now you must tell de trut'." Utterly worn out, Setley fell asleep--a slumber broken with dreams of the exciting episodes of the last few hours. Rats wandered at will over his couch of straw; vermin of other kind swarmed everywhere. His companions, too hungry to sleep, sat up and smoked, recounting anecdotes on almost every topic except the war. Without the guns thundered incessantly, but the duel was chiefly betwixt the artillery, and the trenches were left almost untouched. "I'm off to see if I can't find some grub," declared Penfold. "Who's game?" Ginger Anderson volunteered to accompany him with the greatest alacrity. It was better than sitting still in a damp dug-out with hunger gnawing at one's vitals. Alderhame and Bartlett also expressed their willingness to take part in the foraging expedition. "I reckon as if we do 'ave any luck," remarked Ginger, "the rations will arrive directly we do, and all our work'll be for nothing." "So much the better," rejoined Penfold. "How about Setley?" "Let him sleep on," suggested the ex-actor: "Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber." "'Buzzing night-flies' sounds poetical," remarked Penfold. "Poetic licence shows tactful discretion in this case. Come along, you fellows." The four adventurers sallied forth to beg, borrow, or steal something in the edible line. It was freezing so hard that the trench-boards were immovably cemented in solid mud of the hardness of stone. "Thank goodness we weren't warned for the wiring party," whispered Penfold. "Black as pitch, and as cold as charity. Hist! What do you make of that?" He pointed to a faint ray of light emanating from an oblique shaft of a dug-out--that of the major of his company. The opening was for ventilating purposes, and was fitted with a piece of corrugated iron to prevent the water making its way into the underground room. From the shaft came the unmistakable odour of roast meat. One by one the men reconnoitred, and withdrew to a safe distance to deliberate. "Regular old food-hog," declared Alderhame. "Not only is he about to wolf a pound of meat, but there's a pudding and a packet of sausages. Presumably, his missis has sent him out a hamper." "Too much for one man, albeit a field officer," decided Penfold. "Lads, we must have some of that grub!" "'Ow?" enquired Anderson. "Yer can't just pop in an' say, friendly like: 'Wot cheer, major, old sport; 'ow abart it? Can yer?" "Can't we lure him out?" suggested Alderhame. "We might; but what's the use?" rejoined Penfold. "These officers' dug-outs have doors, and ten to one he'll lock it if he goes far from his grub." "You get him out," said Sidney Bartlett. "I'll do the rest. All we want is a light pole. There are some in the next traverse. Lash a bayonet to one end and spear what we can through that hole." "Sounds feasible," agreed Penfold. "Nip off and get the gear ready." In a short space of time Bartlett had rigged up his improvised fishing-tackle. "Now," he said, "I'm ready. You carry on, Penfold." Drawing his woollen cap well over his eyes and turning up the collar of his greatcoat as high as possible, Penfold knocked at the door of the Major's dug-out. "Well?" enquired a deep muffled voice testily. "Colonel's compliments, sir," announced the mendacious private, in an assumed tone. "He wants you to report to him at once upon the number of men left in this section of the trench." Grumbling, the Major issued from his subterranean retreat, carefully locked the door, and set out to find the company sergeant-major, in order to obtain the supposedly urgent information. Before he returned the four raiders were scurrying back to their dug-out, each with his mouth full of cold sausage, while Alderhame retained a painful impression of an otherwise appetizing repast in the shape of a cut on his cheek, caused by the end of the pole as the elated Sidney swiftly withdrew it with the prized booty impaled upon the bayonet. "Where's my first-aid dressing?" enquired the ex-actor, with mock concern. "'And patches will I get unto these scars And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.'" "Hardly good enough for Blighty," said Penfold, with a laugh. "My word, won't the Major be in a tear when he misses his sausages!" "Let him," said Bartlett. "He can only blame the rats." "Halt! Who goes there?" exclaimed the hoarse voice of a sentry in the next traverse. "Engineers' ration party," was the reply. "Is this the Royal Engineers?" "Rather!" replied the ready Penfold. "Dump 'em down; we'll fetch them." Out of the neighbouring dug-outs poured other Tommies. Without having any suspicion of the ruse played upon them, the ration party handed over the stores intended for a company of the Royal Engineers, who were engaged in tunnelling on the left of the Wheatshires' trenches. Almost in the nick of time a famine was averted at the expense of the sappers and miners. But, as Penfold remarked, it was each man for himself when it came to a case of semi-starvation. CHAPTER V THE EXPEDITION TO NO MAN'S LAND "TURN out, you chaps! You're warned for duty in the first-line trench." With the sergeant's words ringing in his ears Ralph Setley arose from his uncomfortable bed. A candle was still guttering. It was not yet dawn. The Huns' protracted shelling had ceased until the time for their customary morning "hate." The rest of the occupants of his dug-out were engaged upon their morning "toilet"--the rite consisting of cleaning and oiling their rifles. Washing was out of the question, and as they had turned in fully dressed, including great-coats and boots, there was nothing further to be done beyond cooking breakfast. Thanks to the blunder of the rationing party the men regaled themselves with slices of bacon, bread not more than three days old, and tea of exceptionally strong brew. The bacon was gritty, which was not to be wondered at, seeing that the men had been under shell-fire almost the whole way to the trenches. Alderhame was in high spirits notwithstanding he had had but a few hours' sleep. There was a touch of the far-off "green-room" days, as he laid his hand on Setley's shoulder. "Come on, laddie," he said. "Let's survey the radiant morn:-- "This battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with glowing light; What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night." Viewed in the pale grey dawn, the dreary stretch of No Man's Land was robbed of most of its ghastly details. Here and there, often in heaps, huddled corpses dressed in mud-stained field-grey testified to the accuracy of the British rifle and machine-gun fire. Further away lay the trenches that the Wheatshires had visited so effectively. Already Hun wiring parties had been out, and the shattered stakes and snake-like coils of severed barbed wire had been replaced by new. Almost in the front row of wire a black, white, and red striped flag--the emblem of Germany--fluttered in the faint breeze. Setley could now understand why the order for recall had been given when the regiment was in possession of this section of the Hun trenches, for dominating the advance works was a strong redoubt, known to the Wheatshires by the somewhat ominous name of Pumpnickel. For the last three weeks the Engineers--the same company whose rations had been appropriated by the Wheatshires--had been engaged in driving a mine-gallery in the direction of this earthwork-fortress. Great things were promised when the time came to spring the mine and send Pumpnickel Redoubt flying in the air. "I mean to get that flag," declared Bartlett. "I'll go out to-night and bring it in." "Wouldn't if I were you," said Penfold. "It's a sort of booby-trap, I wouldn't mind betting. Something that, when moved, explodes a grenade." "I'll risk that," declared the lad grimly. "The Boches mustn't flaunt their colours in our faces. I was----" Something "pinged" on the rounded surface of his steel helmet. A watchful sniper had seized his chance. Only by an inch had Sidney escaped death, for had the bullet struck the steel squarely instead of glancing off the convex surface the head-gear would not have withstood the impact. "Are you young fools looking for trouble?" growled Sergeant Ferris, the N.C.O. who had routed them from the dug-out. "Keep under cover, and use a trench periscope if you want to enjoy the scenery." "Thanks for the tip, sergeant," said George Anderson. "Sorry I can't offer yer a seegar, sergeant; I left me case on the grand pianner at 'ome; but 'ave a fag--a genuine Day's March Nearer 'Ome' brand." The N.C.O. took the proffered cigarette and lit it slowly and deliberately. "Are we on Wiring Party to-night, sergeant?" asked Ginger. "Not as I know of," was the reply. "Why?" "'Cause my pal 'ere is goin' to get 'old of that striped bed-cover"--jerking his thumb in the direction of the German flag--"an' I'm a-goin' with 'im; ain't I, Sid, ole sport?" "Then you'll have to be sharp about it," remarked Sergeant Ferris. "The mine is to be sprung at 3.30 a.m. We're over the top again; this time there'll be no going back, if all goes well. We ought to advance four hundred yards and consolidate the position. So now you know. Go for the flag at your own risk, chums; but don't forget. Be back before three, or you'll stand a sure and certain chance of going to Kingdom Come with a couple o' hundred perishing Boches for company." During the rest of the day nothing happened beyond the customary routine of trench life, combined with the monotonous occurrence of casualties. "Are you still of the same mind, Bartlett?" enquired Alderhame, as darkness set in. "Rather," was the firm reply. "Then I'm going with you." "And I," added Setley. "No, you don't," objected Anderson. "Two's quite enough for this blessed job. Look 'ere: if I don't come back, there's a letter in my pack wot I wants sent 'ome. Anythink else you can 'ave, fags an' all. I'm going to 'ave a doss. Turn me out at twelve." "Rum chap," commented Alderhame, indicating the soundly sleeping Ginger. "A regular rough diamond, always ready to do a pal a good turn." "By the by," said Setley. "You did me a good turn when my bayonet got hung up, although you nearly split the drum of my ear when you fired and brought down the fellow who was about to club me." "Every little helps," said Alderhame. "Lucky for you the Hun wasn't on my left side." "Why?" enquired Ralph curiously. "Simply because I'm stone-blind in my left eye," replied the ex-actor composedly. "I was passed for Class A just the same. When I told the doctor he merely remarked: 'Oh, left eye, eh? Well, a man almost invariably shoots with his right eye!' 'I'd sooner shoot with a rifle, sir!' I said. 'And so you shall, my man!' he rejoined, laughing at my repartee; so he marked me down for general service, and here I am. I'm not at all sorry. If I come through this business it will be something to be proud of, you know." All was quiet between the opposing lines. The Huns, realizing the superior weight and volume of fire of the British guns, wisely refrained from inviting them; while the latter, massed until they were practically wheel to wheel, were silent, concentrating their energies for a terrific tornado of shell as a prelude to the rush of the infantry "over the top." At midnight the two volunteers were roused from their slumbers. "Still of the same mind?" enquired Penfold. "Not 'arf," replied Ginger, while Bartlett nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders in the characteristic way that he had inherited from his Polish ancestors. "We'll speed the parting guests," declared Alderhame, with a forced attempt at joviality. "Me lud, your carriage waits." "Chuck it!" retorted Anderson. "'Ere, gimme me baynit. Look arter me rifle till I comes back. Now, Sidney, old sport." Setley, Penfold, and the ex-actor accompanied them to the front trench. Like men about to dive into icy-cold water the two raiders paused, with one foot on the fire-step; then without a word both wriggled silently and cautiously over the parapet. Ten seconds later the intense darkness had swallowed them up. Braving the piercing cold the three men awaited their comrades' return, peering at intervals over the top of the parapet and straining their ears to catch the faintest sound of their movements. Twenty minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did the twain betray their presence in the forbidding No Man's Land. Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a short shriek of mingled pain and rage, the thud of blows falling on some soft object, and the unmistakable squelching of many feet in the tenacious slime. "Good heavens!" ejaculated Penfold. "They've been done in. Who's going out, lads?" "Not much use at present," objected Alderhame. "The Huns are on the alert. When things have quieted down a bit, I'll go." "That's the spirit, lad," said Sergeant Ferris, who had joined the party of watchers. "Discretion is what's wanted now. We've chucked away two men over this business already, and all for the sake of a dirty German flag." Another twenty minutes passed. The Huns could be heard talking excitedly in their trenches, but the distance was too great to distinguish their words. Setley was of the opinion that Sidney was a prisoner. He fancied that he heard the lad's voice, but he could not be certain. "If they'd got Ginger," declared Penfold, "there would be no doubt of hearing his voice. Well, lads, are you fit?" The three men began to remove great-coats and everything likely to impede their movements. Suddenly Setley snatched up his rifle. "What's up, now?" asked the sergeant. "Something moving," declared the lad. The sentries, too, held their arms in readiness to open fire. "Steady on, chums," whispered Ginger. "Don't let rip. It's only me." He wriggled over the parapet and dropped inertly upon the fire-step. For some moments he lay like one dead, his comrades forbearing to question him. Presently he raised his head, and extending his hand showed a closely rolled bundle that was indistinguishable in the darkness. "I've got it, mates," he announced. "It's the flag we went out for. Got me baynit into one bloke's throat, an' didn't 'e scream." "Where's Sidney?" asked Penfold. "Ain't 'e back? I lost touch with 'im. 'Ere, I'm off out again!" "No, you don't," declared Sergeant Ferris firmly. "You'll be put under arrest if you attempt it. You're done up. Now, you fellows, if you're going you'd best look sharp about it. Take a rope, in case you find young Bartlett. Slip it round his heels, and drag him in if he cannot crawl." In spite of his resolution, Setley's heart was literally in his mouth when he found himself in contact with the slime of No Man's Land. At ten paces he had lost all idea of the whereabouts of his companions. Guided by the relative position of the Pole star, now shining feebly through the drifting smoke, he crawled slowly but steadily onwards towards the spot where the coveted flag had been planted. At frequent intervals star-shells burst overhead, throwing a blinding, ghostly glare upon the crater-pitted ground. Their appearance was the signal for Setley to throw himself flat upon the ground. The slightest movement would have resulted in a machine-gun being trained upon him. With his face pillowed on his arm--it was the only way of preventing a smothering acquaintance with the evil-smelling Somme mud--he was unable to take advantage of the light to look for his companions. Whether they were ahead, behind, or had relinquished their efforts, he was totally in ignorance. Presently his hand came in contact with some hard cold substance. It was the face of a frozen corpse--that of a Hun, judging by the cloth-swathed helmet. The man was obviously a sniper, for he had on him a stock of candles, food and drink, and a pair of binoculars. Evidently he was making, under cover of darkness, for a favourite lair when a chance bullet struck him on the forehead. A searchlight, unexpectedly unmasked, swept the ground. Fortunately, Setley had just crept into a shell-crater, and the raised lip effectually intercepted the dazzling rays. From the corner of his eye he made out the sinister lines of wire fronting the German trenches, the criss-cross of barbed entanglements standing out like silver filigree work in the cold rays of the electric light. He was within a few feet of his objective. Voices were talking just over the sand-bagged parapet. He listened. There were Germans speaking in broken English, asking questions in menacing tones.
had hidden on him would do for this. He slung his pack toward the wall behind him, leaving both hands free. He half turned, to keep Lorenzo in sight while watching the advancing men. The Sicilian had a long dagger in a scabbard hung by his right side, but he did not draw it. Facing the three swords, Daoud had not yet raised his hands. But his legs tensed. He bent at the knees, shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. He whirled and sprang at Lorenzo. The Sicilian jumped backward, and Daoud could hear behind him the pounding of booted feet on the wooden floor. The dog barked furiously. Daoud grappled with Lorenzo. The Sicilian grabbed his forearms, trying to hold him at a distance, and his strength was almost a match for Daoud's. But Daoud twisted his arms free, drove in, and caught Celino's neck in the bend of his left arm. He swung him around so that the Sicilian's body was between himself and the three attacking soldiers. While Lorenzo stumbled, Daoud plucked the man's dagger out of its scabbard. It had two sharp edges and came to a diamond-bright point. Scipio leapt at him, but Daoud shifted Lorenzo between himself and the hound, and Scipio fell back. His enraged barking was deafening, like the roar of a lion. His fangs were a row of bone spear-points. He danced right and left, seeking a way to get past Lorenzo to Daoud. The joy of battle, the weapon in his hand, made Daoud feel the power coursing through his arms. But that damned dog had to be stopped. His teeth were as dangerous to Daoud as the curving blades of the three Muslim soldiers. Those fangs could rip through his boots, tear the muscles of his legs, and cripple him. He would prefer death. Releasing Lorenzo's neck, Daoud gripped Lorenzo's wrist and twisted, hard and fast. Biting his lip, Lorenzo resisted, but he had to turn and bend, or the pressure on his arm would break it. Daoud laid the edge of Lorenzo's dagger against his throat. "Call off your dog or I cut your throat." Daoud glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was behind him. "By all means cut my throat," Lorenzo flung back at him. "And Scipio will tear _your_ throat out." "If the dog jumps at me, I will gut him." "The devil roast your balls," Lorenzo growled. "Scipio, sit!" The hound stopped barking and stared at Lorenzo. "Down, Scipio!" Lorenzo said. "He will not hurt me." To Daoud he said, "If you do hurt me, you will suffer such things that you will beg us to kill you." Scipio reluctantly crouched, murder in his brown eyes and a steady, low growling issuing from his throat. The three Muslim guards were still moving forward, far more warily. Daoud felt strong and able now to deal with these four men, but he could almost feel the weight of the overwhelming trap he was in. The thick walls. The thousands of soldiers. It was hopeless. He could fight on only until he died. And that was not what he had come here for at all. Daoud stepped back toward the farther doorway, pulling Lorenzo with him. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one was behind him. "For my part," said Daoud, "I will hurt you till you beg _them_ to put down their swords. I will start by breaking your arm." He gave the twisted arm a vicious upward push till he could almost feel the agony of the tendons. Lorenzo grunted, and Scipio barked angrily. Most men, Daoud thought, would have screamed aloud at that. "No matter what you do to me, it will not help you," said Lorenzo. Three more turbaned Muslim soldiers joined those coming at Daoud. They spread out in a wide circle, some of them trying to slip around to his rear. "Stand where you are, or I'll kill him," Daoud shouted. To show he meant it, he pressed the knife edge hard against Celino's throat and sliced with it just enough to draw blood. "I hope you will enjoy the taste of your own intestines," Lorenzo said. He dug his boot heels into the wooden floor, trying to slow down Daoud's effort to drag him to the door. Daoud pushed up harder on his arm to make him move faster. Daoud felt no fear of death, and he would not let them take him prisoner to torture him. He would die fighting. And go straight to paradise. But how foolish all this was. A waste of his own life and the lives he would take with him. And many of those he would kill were Muslims, like himself. "You must know that you will be the first to die here," he said. "And believe me I will take many of your men with me. I may even manage to kill your precious dog. I did not come here to fight with King Manfred's men. Why are you doing this?" Celino, who had been struggling against Daoud, now relaxed and turned his head. "You are too dangerous to live." "Dangerous to whom?" "To me," said a deep voice behind Daoud. III Daoud turned, dragging Celino. A blond man stood, hands on hips, eyeing him with a faint smile. One of the big doors leading into the royal audience chamber was slightly ajar. Daoud was angry at himself for letting someone slip up behind him unnoticed. "Sire, get back!" Lorenzo shouted. _Sire._ Daoud knew at once who this was. The same height as Lorenzo, as Daoud now saw, the man had the very broad shoulders Christian knights developed from wielding their huge two-handed swords. Daoud guessed his age at a little over thirty. His hair, so blond it was almost silver, hung in soft waves below his ears, curling at the ends. His silver-blond mustache was carefully trimmed. His eyelids crinkled with amusement. He wore a tunic of lime-colored silk under a short forest-green cloak trimmed with white fur. His hose and boots were also shades of green. From a chain around his neck hung a five-pointed silver star with a spherical ruby in its center. In every point he fit the description Daoud had been given. The despair Daoud had been feeling a moment before gave way to a profound relief. It had seemed that everything stood in the way of his meeting this man, and now at last they were face-to-face. "Sire," Daoud said in Italian, "I know who you are, and you must know who I am." "I do indeed," said Manfred von Hohenstaufen, still smiling. "Please release Messer Lorenzo." Daoud hesitated only a moment. But if Manfred allowed Lorenzo to hurt him now, the mission was a failure anyway. Tensed for attack, he let go of Lorenzo, who sprang away. In an instant the Sicilian had taken a curving Islamic sword from a soldier. "Sire, at least move back from him," Lorenzo said. "You know what we are dealing with here." "Quiet, Lorenzo," snapped Manfred. "What we are dealing with is a peddler from some misty land beyond the Black Sea who happens to be infernally nimble. That is all." Daoud was pleased to hear Manfred go along with his disguise. He relaxed a bit and eyed the king of southern Italy and Sicily. A splendid-looking man with a charm that Daoud felt after only a moment's acquaintance. "Will the peddler be so kind as to return my dagger?" Lorenzo asked with heavy irony. "This side of the Black Sea it is considered discourteous to stand in the king's presence holding a naked weapon." "Of course," said Daoud, holding the dagger by its guard and handing it hilt-first to Lorenzo, who in turn gave the Saracen soldier back his sword. Daoud was glad he had not had to kill Lorenzo. The Sicilian, like his master, Manfred, was clearly a man above the common run. His behavior toward Daoud so far had been a series of clever pretenses. Indeed, Daoud was sure he had not gotten to the bottom of Lorenzo yet. "I thank you for entertaining us with this display of your fighting skills, Messer David," said King Manfred. "Now let us talk of the silk trade. Join us, Lorenzo." Manfred led the way into the audience chamber beyond the Hall of Mars. Walking beside Daoud, Celino snapped his fingers at Scipio. The big gray hound rose and followed, casting a hostile look at Daoud. _Why did they try to kill me?_ In the audience hall, marble pillars supported a vaulted ceiling pierced by circular glazed windows. A dozen or more men and women stood around, staring at Daoud. His glance quickly took in the feathered caps of the men, the pale rose and violet gowns of the women, and the gilded nets that held their hair. He tried not to stare at the women, whose faces were bare in the manner of unbelievers. But they were all, he noted, beautiful in varying degrees. Several had striking blond hair and blue eyes. Though it was his own coloring, he was not used to seeing fair women, and his heartbeat quickened. But the gaze of a darker woman met his. Her amber-colored eyes seemed to burn. Her nose was small, the nostrils flaring, her lips full and dark red. The face was carefully without expression, revealing as little as if it were indeed covered with a veil. The dark woman's black hair was coiled on top of her head in braids intertwined with ropes of pearls. Her scarlet gown was decorated with long strips of satin embroidered in floral designs. Over her narrow shoulders she wore a shawl of flame-colored silk. Having been to Constantinople, Daoud recognized her style of dress as Byzantine. She made the other women of Manfred's court look like barbarians. She held his gaze steadily. He bowed his head courteously, and she responded with a faint nod. Then he was past her. Standing on a dais at the end of the hall was a large chair of black wood with painted panels; to the left of the dais sat a small group of purple-robed men holding string and wind instruments. On the right was a small doorway. A servant leapt to fling open the door for Manfred, who strode briskly toward it, tossing pleasantries to his courtiers. The door led through a series of rooms where clerks wrote busily, and Daoud noticed with surprise that they went right on scribbling as their king walked through. Obviously Manfred preferred their work to their homage. Daoud sensed that their path was taking them on a circuit of the great eight-sided structure. They passed through a small kitchen where bakers were preparing fruit pastries. Manfred plucked a freshly baked cherry tart from a tray, bit into it, and nodded to the bowing cook. To his surprise, Daoud noticed a small figure in one corner, the little bent man who had earlier looked on him with pity. The dwarf lay curled up on his side with closed eyes on his empty firewood cart. Not a bad occupation, Daoud thought, supplying firewood to the king's pastry kitchen. Beyond the kitchen the three men entered another great hall, so brightly lit that Daoud's eyes hurt for a moment. The afternoon sun streamed through arched windows of white glass set, as in the Hall of Mars, high in the walls. The walls were lined with shelves loaded with books and compartments filled with scrolls. Walkways at three levels ran around the walls, and ladders were spaced along them. Men in long gray tunics browsed at the shelves or sat at tables in the center of the room reading books and scrolls and making notes on parchment. A servant opened a wrought-iron grill in the shortest wall of the library, and the three men stepped out under the sky into an octagonal space filled with trees and plants, enclosed on all sides by a colonnaded gallery. In the center of the garden a small fountain played, topped by a small bronze statue of a naked woman straddling a dolphin, the water spurting from the dolphin's mouth. Daoud was momentarily shocked. The most powerful and corrupt emir in Egypt would not dare to have such a statue where strangers might see it. Manfred beckoned, and Daoud followed him down a pebble path to the basin of the fountain. Small dark green fish flickered through the water. The king seated himself on a marble bench, and the two men stood before him. At a gesture from Lorenzo, Scipio lay down in the sun beside a bush bearing dozens of dark-red roses. The sun gleamed on Manfred's pale hair. "What does your sultan want of me?" he asked. "I am ordered to speak openly only to you and your secretary Aziz," said Daoud, his glance shifting to Lorenzo. "Ah, you did not know, then, that Aziz is the name Lorenzo Celino uses when he writes to the Sultan of Cairo for me?" Lorenzo Celino--Aziz? Daoud turned to Celino and laughed with delighted surprise. "You write excellent Arabic. I would never have guessed that you were not one of us." Lorenzo accepted Daoud's compliment with a small bow. "One of _us_?" said Manfred. "And what are you, then, Messere? I see before me a strapping man, blond enough to be one of my Swabian knights, yet who claims to come from the Sultan of Cairo. You are no Arab or Turk." "Indeed not, Sire," said Daoud. "I am a Mameluke." "A blond Mameluke." Manfred nodded. "Where are you from, then, Russia or Circassia?" Without emotion Daoud told the king of his descent from crusaders and his capture by the Muslims. "What a strange world this is," said Manfred. "And when did this happen to you?" "Twenty years ago, Sire. For most of those years I have served my lord Baibars al-Bunduqdari, who is now Sultan of Cairo." "And you are a Muslim?" "Of course, Sire." Manfred stood up and came close to him. "Of course? You say that so firmly. Do you not remember the Christian teachings of your childhood?" The question made Daoud angry. _My soul is undivided. King or not, how dare this infidel question that!_ "God willed that I find the truth, Sire," he said simply. Manfred shrugged. "It is all the same to me. I have lived among Muslims all my life." "May I know, Sire, why your secretary, to whom my master sent me in good faith, tried to kill me?" Daoud asked. Manfred turned his back on Daoud and strolled a short distance down the pebble path. "Lorenzo is neither my secretary nor does he normally command my gate guards. He performs for me _unusual_ tasks that require a man of uncommon courage, loyalty, and wit. Such as testing you--first, by taking you prisoner, then by giving you pork and wine and speaking to you in Arabic, finally by trying to kill you." "But I might have killed him." "I did not realize how much of a risk I was taking," said Lorenzo. "We did not think Baibars could find anywhere in his empire a man who could go to the papal court undetected. We hoped to show him his error and send you back. But you are quite a remarkable man, David." _Show Baibars his error!_ Manfred might be a brilliant man, but he evidently underestimated Baibars. Daoud sensed himself feeling a bit superior and warned himself not to make the same mistake and underestimate Manfred. "Perhaps now that you have tested my ability, Sire, you might be more inclined to help me." "Help you to do what?" There was a note of irritation in Manfred's voice. "Your Sultan Baibars has asked me only to help you carry out a mission in the Papal States. What is your mission?" Daoud said, "Sire, my master chose not to entrust his plan to writing, but sent me to tell it to you instead. I am here for one purpose, to prevent the forming of an alliance between Christians and Tartars." Manfred looked surprised, and stared intently at Daoud. "Tartars? Those barbarians who invaded Europe--how long ago, Lorenzo?" Lorenzo frowned. "Over twenty years, Sire." Daoud said, "Fifty years ago they were nothing. A scattering of herdsmen, like the Bedouin. Now they are the most powerful people on earth." Manfred nodded. "Yes, I remember now. When they rode into Poland and Hungary I was just a boy. Everyone was in terror of them. Their emperor sent letters to all the monarchs of Europe demanding that they surrender. He contemptuously offered them positions in his court." He grinned at Daoud. "My father showed me the letter he was sending back. If Tartar emperor succeeded in conquering Europe, my father said, he would be well qualified to serve as his falconer." Daoud inclined his head. "Your family's love of falconry is well known to your admirers in the lands of Islam. My lord the sultan considers you an old friend and hopes that you will see fit to help him in his time of need." Manfred held out his hands, palms up. "If I can." "Now the Tartars have fallen upon the lands of Islam," Daoud said. "They have conquered Persia. They have a hundred thousand mounted warriors in the field, and allies and auxiliaries. They have leveled our holy city of Baghdad, destroyed it utterly, and killed every man, woman, and child who lived there, even the Commander of the Faithful, our caliph himself. These are no fanciful tales, Sire. I have fought against the Tartars. I have seen with my own eyes the ashes of Baghdad and the heaps of its dead." The scene of desolation arose in his mind as it had so many times before, the gray plain where a city had been, the unbelievable sight of a landscape strewn with rotting, headless corpses as far as the eye could see. To put it out of his mind, he hurried on with what he had to say. "Now their armies advance through Syria, threatening the realm of my lord, the Sultan of Cairo. We have had word that Hulagu Khan, commander of the Tartar armies in Persia, has sent two high-ranking emissaries to the pope. They are sailing across the Middle Sea now, from the island of Cyprus to Venice. Hulagu Khan wants to form an alliance with the Christian rulers of Europe to attack us from both directions at once, east and west. Our whole people, our whole Muslim faith, could be utterly wiped out." Manfred nodded grimly. "And all of Christian Europe would rejoice at your destruction. Not I, certainly, but the rest of them. What do you propose to do about these Tartar emissaries to the pope?" "For that I will need your help, Sire. I, too, will go to the pope's court. I understand that he resides at Orvieto, a small town north of Rome." "Yes," Lorenzo put in, "and there he will stay. He has not set foot in Rome since he galloped in to be crowned at Saint Peter's and galloped out again. He is terrified of the Roman mob. As well he should be, since most of their leaders are in our pay." "Trade secrets, Celino," said Manfred, raising a cautioning finger. "So, you will go to Orvieto. And then?" "I will present myself at the pope's court as I have here, as David, a merchant of Trebizond. I will take up residence with--friends--who can help me reach the ears of men of influence. I will spread stories throughout Orvieto--true stories--of the horrors the Tartars have perpetrated everywhere they have gone, of their determination to conquer the entire world." Manfred shook his head. "What you plan to do is very dangerous. You've proven to us that you are a skilled and resourceful man, but still, what if you are discovered?" He shook his head. "Have you any idea of how your people are _hated_ in Europe, David? If it were known that I helped a Muslim spy to steal into the court of the pope, all the kingdoms of Christendom would turn against me. The pope need but snap his fingers and I and my little realm would be swept away. No, David. You ask me to risk too much." Daoud was momentarily surprised, then angry. He had expected that Manfred would cooperate with him. If the young king vacillated, Daoud might have journeyed from Egypt to Italy for nothing. And then a ripple of fear crept up his spine. If he failed to persuade Manfred, the Tartars might destroy the world he had come to love and believe in. _God, help me to stop them. I must not go back to El Kahira a failure._ He must choose his words with care. He was dealing here with a king, and one did not argue with kings. Better to ask questions than offer arguments. "Does not the pope wish even now to take your throne from you, Sire?" he said. "How can matters between you and him be any worse?" Manfred nodded. "True, Pope Urban keeps offering my crown to this prince and that, claiming that I had no right to inherit it from my father. And that he had no right to have it in the first place." Manfred bit his lip, and the light pink of his cheeks reddened. "But only the French are powerful enough to take it from me. And King Louis of France is kindly disposed to me and will not permit any of his great barons to make war on me. I rely on Louis's continued goodwill." "But the man who wants to join with the Tartars to annihilate Islam is that same King Louis of France," Daoud said. "France, as you said, is the only kingdom with the power to help the pope dethrone you. Should the pope decide against allying with the Tartars, King Louis will continue to prohibit his subjects from joining the pope's war against you. Help me, and you come between King Louis and the pope." "Intrigue requires gold," said Manfred. "Does your master expect me to pay for your activities?" "What I have brought with me will pay for all," Daoud replied. He unbuckled his belt and undid the laces that held his hose tight around his waist. Celino moved closer, tense, ready in case Daoud should reach for a weapon. Daoud slipped his fingers into the breeches he wore under his hose and found the bag tied to the drawstring. "What is the man doing?" said Manfred with a wondering smile. Celino shook his head. Daoud pulled out a bag of heavy red silk, full and round with what it held. He felt a childlike delight in mystifying the two men. "Pay me from your royal treasury what this is worth," said Daoud, "and I shall have gold enough for all I need to do." He pulled apart the mouth of the silk bag and drew out of it a globe of green fire. He held it out to Manfred. Celino gasped. Daoud was gratified at their wonderment. "Are you not afraid I will steal this from you and dump you in an unmarked grave?" said Manfred with a bright grin. "The Hohenstaufen family have been friends of the sultans of Egypt since your father's day," said Daoud. "We have learned to trust you." "Just listen to that, Lorenzo," said Manfred. "The Saracens think better of me than the pope does." Besides, Daoud thought, Manfred knew that Baibars's arm was long. Manfred, Daoud was sure, knew that Baibars would not permit anyone, even a distant head of state, to betray him so flagrantly. His eyes wide, Manfred extended his palm, and Daoud unhesitatingly placed the emerald in it. Manfred raised it close to his face, peering through the dark depths into its glowing heart. The jewel, irregular in shape but nearly spherical, reflected little spots of pale green light on his cheeks. He shook his head. "Green, the color I love best in all the world. The color of hope." He encircled it with thumb and forefinger. "Look, Lorenzo, I cannot get my fingers around it. I am amazed that your master is willing to part with such a wonder. How did he come by it?" "It has been through many hands, Sire," said Daoud. "It once belonged to Emir Fakr ad-Din, who commanded the army of Egypt when King Louis invaded our land." "To think Baibars let you take this emerald from him, and you came all this way from Alexandria with it and delivered it to me. And Baibars trusted you." "As he trusts you, Sire," Daoud put in quickly. "_You_ are like a falcon, are you not?" said Manfred, smiling into Daoud's eyes. "Released to fly far afield for your sultan." Manfred strode to Daoud suddenly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let it be done as your master wishes, then. The trader from Trebizond will go to Orvieto with my help." A surge of joy sprang up within Daoud and almost burst past his lips. He bowed, his heart pounding. _God be thanked!_ Manfred said, "We must see about turning this jewel of yours into gold coins. Or smaller jewels. They would be easier to carry than gold." Manfred looked lovingly at the emerald again, then carefully dropped it into his belt pouch and smiled at Daoud. "You should not go alone into the Papal States, David. You may have studied Europe from afar, but you do not know Italy firsthand. Lorenzo here shall go with you. I trust Lorenzo to travel far and secretly in my service, even as your master trusts you." Celino sighed. Daoud and Celino eyed each other. Daoud began searching for ways to dissuade Manfred. A short while earlier he and Celino had been trying to kill each other. And Celino would be putting Manfred's interests first, not those of Islam. Obviously aware of his hesitation, Manfred took his arm. "Listen to me, Mameluke. You will be wise to accept every bit of help that is offered to you. I have powerful allies in northern Italy, in Florence, Pisa, Siena, and other cities. But you do not know them and they do not know you. Lorenzo speaks for me. He knows who the key Ghibellini are in the north, and they know him. Do not object to taking him with you." Manfred would not let him go, Daoud realized, unless Celino went with him. And the argument that Celino could put him in touch with the Ghibellini of the north was a strong one. _Lorenzo is perhaps twenty years older than I, but he is quick-witted and quick on his feet. And, yes, I would rather not go alone. I could easily make a mistake from ignorance. I am better off with a man like this to guide me._ A tentative smile played under Celino's grizzled mustache. "My royal master is determined in this. What do you say?" Daoud bowed. "I accept. With gratitude. We shall travel this road together." "Whatever happens to the two of you," Manfred said, "no one must ever know that I am involved." "I guarantee that, Sire," said Celino. Manfred rubbed the palms of his hands together. "There is one other person I propose to send with you. She can be a great help to you." Celino turned quickly to Manfred. "I do not advise it, Sire." "Why not?" said Manfred. "She will be perfect." "Because she will not want to go." There was censure in Celino's dark stare--and a boyish defiance in Manfred's answering look. "Do not question me," said Manfred. "I have no choice. For her good and for my own, she must leave here. And she _will_ be useful to you." Instead of replying, Celino only sighed again. "A woman?" Daoud was thunderstruck. In El Kahira women left their homes only to visit other women. He felt anxiety claw at his belly. Any mistake in planning might wreck the mission and doom him, and Celino, to a horrible death. And to send a woman to the court of the pope on such a venture seemed not just a mistake, but utter madness. "A very beautiful woman," said Manfred, a grin stretching his blond mustache. "One who has had a lifetime's schooling in intrigue. She is from Constantinople, and her name is Sophia, which means wisdom in Greek." _There are no more treacherous people on this earth than the Byzantines_, Daoud thought, _and they have ever been enemies of Islam_. Argument surged up in him, but he saw a hardness in Manfred's eyes that told him nothing he might say would sway the king. He looked at Celino, and saw in the dark, mustached face the same reluctant acceptance he had heard in the sigh. Whoever this Sophia might be, he would have to take her with him. IV Sophia pressed her head back against the pillow and screamed with pleasure. Her loins dissolved into rippling liquid gold. Her fingers dug into the man's back and her legs clenched around his hips, trying to crush him against her. "Oh--oh--oh--" she moaned. The warmth spread to her toes, her fingertips, her scalp, filling her with joy. She was so happy that she wanted to cry. As the blaze of ekstasia died down, she felt Manfred driving deep inside her. She felt his hardness, his separateness, as she could not feel it a moment ago when she was at her peak and they seemed to melt together, one being. His rhythm was insistent, inexorable, like a heartbeat. His hands under her back were tense. He was fighting for his climax. She delighted in the sight of his massive shoulders overshadowing her. It was almost like being loved by a god. Manfred's face was pressed against her shoulder, his open mouth on her collarbone. She turned toward him and saw the light in his white-gold hair. She slid one hand up to his hair and stroked it, while with the other she rubbed his back in a circular motion. She felt the muscles in his body tighten against her. He drew in a shuddering breath. "Yes--yes--good," she whispered, still stroking his hair, still caressing his back. He relaxed, panting heavily. _He never makes much noise. Nothing like my outcries._ They lay without moving, she pleased by the warm weight of him lying upon her, as if it protected her from floating away. The feel of him still inside her sent wavelets of pleasure through her. Still adrift on sensations of delight, she opened her eyes to stare up into the shadows of the canopy overhead. On the heavy bed curtains to her left, the late afternoon sun cast an oblong of yellow light with a pointed arch at the top, the shape of an open window nearby. She knew well the play of light in this unoccupied bedchamber in an upper part of the castle. Manfred and she had met here many times. They rolled together so that they lay side by side in a nest of red and purple cushions. The down-filled silk bolster under them whispered as they shifted their weight, and the rope netting that held it creaked. Manfred propped his head up with one arm. His free hand toyed with the ringlets of her unbound hair. She slid her palm over his chest. She remembered an ancient sculpture she had seen in a home outside Athens. The torso of a man, head missing, arms broken off at the shoulders, legs gone below the knees, the magnificent body had survived barbarian invasions, the coming of Christianity, the iconoclasts, the Frankish conquest, to stand now on a plain pedestal in a room with purple walls, the yellowish marble gleaming in the light of many candles. Her host showed it only to his most trusted guests. "Which god is this?" she had asked. "I think it is just an athlete," said her host. "The old Greeks made gods of their athletes." Manfred's naked torso, pale as marble, seemed as beautiful. And was alive. She sighed happily. "How lucky I am that there was time for love in my king's life this afternoon." She spoke in the Sicilian dialect, Manfred's favorite of all his languages. How lucky, she thought, that after all her years of wandering she had at last found a place in the world where she was loved and needed. His lips stretched in a smile, but his blue eyes were empty. Uneasiness took hold of her. She sensed from the look on his face that he was about to tell her something she did not want to hear. * * * * * In memory she heard a voice say, _Italy was ours not so long ago and might be ours again_. So Michael Paleologos, the Basileus, Emperor of Constantinople, had introduced the suggestion that she go to Italy, and at just such a moment as this, when they were in bed together in his hunting lodge outside Nicaea. She had felt no distress at the idea of being parted from Michael. He was a scrawny man with a long gray beard, and though she counted herself enormously lucky to have attracted his attention, she felt no love for him. She had come to Lucera acting as Michael's agent and personal emissary to Manfred--and resenting Michael's use of her but feeling she had no choice. She was a present from one monarch to another. She ought to be flattered, she supposed. She had walked into Manfred's court in the embroidered jeweled mantle Michael had given her, her hair bound up in silver netting. Lorenzo Celino had conducted her to the throne, and she bowed and looked up. And it was like gazing upon the sun. Manfred von Hohenstaufen's smile was brilliant, his hair white-gold, his eyes sapphires. He stepped down from his throne, took her hand, and led her to his eight-sided garden. First she gave him Michael's messages--news that a Tartar army had stormed the crusader city of Sidon, leveled it, and ridden off again--a warning that Pope Urban had secretly offered the crown of Naples and Sicily, Manfred's crown, to Prince Edward, heir apparent to the throne of England. "Your royal master is kind, but the pope's secret is no secret," Manfred had said, laughing and unconcerned. "The nobility of England have flatly told Prince Edward that they will supply neither money nor men for an adventure in Italy. The pope must find another robber baron to steal my crown." And then he asked her about herself, and they talked about her and about him. She had thought all westerners were savages, but Manfred amazed her with his cultivation. He knew more than many Byzantines, for whom Constantinople--which they always called "the Polis," the City, as if it were the only one--was the whole world. In the short time she and Manfred strolled together that day, he spoke to her in Greek, Latin, and Italian, and she later found out that he knew French, German, and Arabic as well. He sang a song to her in a tongue she did not recognize, and he told her it was Provençal, the language of the troubadours. He undid the clasp of her mantle and let it fall to the gravel. He kissed her in the bright sunlight, and she forgot Michael Paleologos. She belonged altogether to Manfred von Hohenstaufen. * * * * * Now, with a chill, she remembered that she did indeed _belong_ to Manfred. She was not his
ras out of the ten recognised as standing out from all other manifestations of the Supreme. Then, if I am able to accomplish that task, we shall still have one morning left, and that I propose to give entirely to the study of the greatest of the Avatâras, the Lord Shrî Kṛiṣhṇa Himself, endeavouring, if possible, to mark out the great characteristics of His life and His work, and, it may be, to meet and answer some of the objections of the ignorant which, especially in these later days, have been levelled against Him by those who understand nothing of His nature, nothing of the mighty work He came to accomplish in the world. Now we are to begin to-day by seeking an answer to the question, "What is the source of Avatâras?" and it is likely that I am going to take a line of thought somewhat unfamiliar, carrying us, as it does, outside the ordinary lines of our study which deals more with the evolution of man, of the spiritual nature within him. It carries us to those far off times, almost incomprehensible to us, when our universe was coming into manifestation, when its very foundations, as it were, were being laid. In answering the question, however, the mere answer is simple. It is recognised in all religions admitting divine incarnations--and they include the great religions the world--it is admitted that the source of Avatâras, the source of the Divine incarnations, is the second or middle manifestation of the sacred Triad. It matters not whether with Hindus we speak of the Trimûrti, or whether with Christians we speak of the Trinity, the fundamental idea is one and the same. Taking first for a moment the Christian symbology, you will find that every Christian tells you that the one divine incarnation acknowledged in Christianity--for in Christianity they believe in one special incarnation only--you will find in the Christian nomenclature the divine incarnation or Avatâra is that of the second person of the Trinity. No Christian will tell you that there has ever been an incarnation of God the Father, the primeval Source of life. They will never tell you that there has been an incarnation of the third Person of the Trinity, the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of Wisdom, of creative Intelligence, who built up the world-materials. But they will always say that it was the second Person, the Son, who took human form, who appeared under the likeness of humanity, who was manifested as man for helping the salvation of the world. And if you analyse what is meant by that phrase, what, to the mind of the Christian, is conveyed by the thought of the second Person of the Trinity--for remember in dealing with a religion that is not yours you should seek for the thought not the form, you should look at the idea not at the label, for the thoughts are universal while the forms divide, the ideas are identical while the labels are marks of separation--if you seek for the underlying thought you will find it is this: the sign of the second Person of the Trinity is duality; also, He is the underlying life of the world; by His power the worlds were made, and are sustained, supported, and protected. You will find that while the Spirit of Wisdom is spoken of as bringing order out of disorder, kosmos out of chaos, that it is by the manifested Word of God, or the second Person of the Trinity, it is by Him that all forms are builded up in this world, and it is specially in His image that man is made. So also when we turn to what will be more familiar to the vast majority of you, the symbology of Hinduism, you will find that all Avatâras have their source in Viṣhṇu, in Him who pervades the universe, as the very name Viṣhṇu implies, who is the Supporter, the Protector, the pervading, all-permeating Life by which the universe is held together, and by which it is sustained. Taking the names of the Trimûrti so familiar to us all--not the philosophical names Sat, Chit, A´nanda, those names which in philosophy show the attributes of the Supreme Brahman--taking the concrete idea, we have Mahâdeva or Shiva, Viṣhṇu, and Brahmâ: three names, just as in the other religion we have three names; but the same fact comes out, that it is the middle or central one of the Three who is the source of Avatâras. There has never been a direct Avatâra of Mahâdeva, of Shiva Himself. Appearances? Yes. Manifestations? Yes. Coming in form for a special purpose served by that form? Oh yes. Take the _Mahâbhârata_, and you find Him appearing in the form of the hunter, the Kirâta, and testing the intuition of Arjuna, and struggling with him to test his strength, his courage, and finally his devotion to Himself. But that is a mere form taken for a purpose and cast aside the moment the purpose is served; almost, we may say, a mere illusion, produced to serve a special purpose and then thrown away as having completed that which it was intended to perform. Over and over again you find such appearances of Mahâdeva. You may remember one most beautiful story, in which He appears in the form of a Chandâla[5] at the gateway of His own city of Kâshî, when one who was especially overshadowed by a manifestation of Himself, Shrî Shankarâchârya, was coming with his disciples to the sacred city; veiling Himself in the form of an outcaste--for to Him all forms are the same, the human differences are but as the grains of sand which vanish before the majesty of His greatness--He rolled Himself in the dust before the gateway, so that the great teacher could not walk across without touching Him, and he called to the Chandâla to make way in order that the Brâhmaṇa might go on unpolluted by the touch of the outcaste; then the Lord, speaking through the form He had chosen, rebuked the very one whom His power overshadowed, asking him questions which he could not answer and thus abasing his pride and teaching him humility. Such forms truly He has taken, but these are not what we can call Avatâras; mere passing forms, not manifestations upon earth where a life is lived and a great drama is played out. So with Brahmâ; He also has appeared from time to time, has manifested Himself for some special purpose; but there is no Avatâra of Brahmâ, which we can speak of by that very definite and well understood term. [Footnote 5: An outcaste, equivalent to a scavenger.] Now for this fact there must be some reason. Why is it that we do not find the source of Avatâras alike in all these great divine manifestations? Why do they come from only one aspect and that the aspect of Viṣhṇu? I need not remind you that there is but one Self, and that these names we use are the names of the aspects that are manifested by the Supreme; we must not separate them so much as to lose sight of the underlying unity. For remember how, when a worshipper of Viṣhṇu had a feeling in his heart against a worshipper of Mahâdeva, as he bowed before the image of Hari, the face of the image divided itself in half, and Shiva or Hara appeared on one side and Viṣhṇu or Hari appeared on the other, and the two, smiling as one face on the bigoted worshipper, told him that Mahâdeva and Viṣhṇu were but one. But in Their functions a division arises; They manifest along different lines, as it were, in the kosmos and for the helping of man; not for Him but for us, do these lines of apparent separateness arise. Looking thus at it, we shall be able to find the answer to our question, not only who is the source of Avatâras, but why Viṣhṇu is the source. And it is here that I come to the unfamiliar part where I shall have to ask for your special attention as regards the building of the universe. Now I am using the word "universe," in the sense of our solar system. There are many other systems, each of them complete in itself, and, therefore, rightly spoken of as a kosmos, a universe. But each of these systems in its turn is part of a mightier system, and our sun, the centre of our own system, though it be in very truth the manifested physical body of I´shwara Himself, is not the only sun. If you look through the vast fields of space, myriads of suns are there, each one the centre of its own system, of its own universe; and our sun, supreme to us, is but, as it were, a planet in a vaster system, its orbit curved round a sun greater than itself. So in turn that sun, round which our sun is circling, is planet to a yet mightier sun, and each set of systems in its turn circles round a more central sun, and so on--we know not how far may stretch the chain that to us is illimitable; for who is able to plumb the depths and heights of space, or to find a manifested circumference which takes in all universes! Nay, we say that they are infinite in number, and that there is no end to the manifestations of the one Life. Now that is true physically. Look at the physical universe with the eye of spirit, and you see in it a picture of the spiritual universe. A great word was spoken by one of the Masters or Ṛishis, whom in this Society we honour and whose teachings we follow. Speaking to one of His disciples, or pupils, He rebuked him, because, He said in words never to be forgotten by those who have read them: "You always look at the things of the spirit with the eyes of the flesh. What you ought to do is to look at the things of the flesh with the eyes of the spirit." Now, what does that mean? It means that instead of trying to degrade the spiritual and to limit it within the narrow bounds of the physical, and to say of the spiritual that it cannot be because the human brain is unable clearly to grasp it, we ought to look at the physical universe with a deeper insight and see in it the image, the shadow, the reflection of the spiritual world, and learn the spiritual verities by studying the images that exist of them in the physical world around us. The physical world is easier to grasp. Do not think the spiritual is modelled on the physical; the physical is fundamentally modelled on the spiritual, and if you look at the physical with the eye of spirit, then you find that it is the image of the higher, and then you are able to grasp the higher truth by studying the faint reflections that you see in the world around you. That is what I ask you to do now. Just as you have your sun and suns, many universes, each one part of a system mightier than itself, so in the spiritual universe there is hierarchy beyond hierarchy of spiritual intelligences who are as the suns of the spiritual world. Our physical system has at its centre the great spiritual Intelligence manifested as a Trinity, the I´shvara of that system. Then beyond Him there is a mightier I´shvara, round whom Those who are on the level of the I´shvara of our system circle, looking to Him as Their central life. And beyond Him yet another, and beyond Him others and others yet, until as the physical universes are beyond our thinking, the spiritual hierarchy stretches also beyond our thought, and, dazzled and blinded by the splendour, we sink back to earth, as Arjuna was blinded when the Vaiṣhṇava form shone forth on him, and we cry: "Oh! show us again Thy more limited form that we may know it and live by it. We are not yet ready for the mightier manifestations. We are blinded, not helped, by such blaze of divine splendour." And so we find that if we would learn we must limit ourselves--nay, we must try to expand ourselves--to the limits of our own system. Why? I have met people who have not really any grasp of this little world, this grain of dust in which they live, who cannot be content unless you answer questions about the One Existence, the Para-Brahma, whom sages revere in silence, not daring to speak even with illuminated mind that knows nirvânic life and has expanded to nirvânic consciousness. The more ignorant the man, the more he thinks he can grasp. The less he understands, the more he resents being told that there are some things beyond the grasp of his intellect, existences so mighty that he cannot even dream of the lowest of the attributes that mark them out. And for myself, who know myself ignorant, who know that many an age must pass ere I shall be able to think of dealing with these profounder problems, I sometimes gauge the ignorance of the questioner by the questions that he asks as to the ultimate existences, and when he wants to know what he calls the primary origin, I know that he has not even grasped the one-thousandth part of the origin out of which he himself has sprung. Therefore, I say to you frankly that these mighty Ones whom we worship are the Gods of our system; beyond them there stretch mightier Ones yet, whom, perhaps, myriads of kalpas hence, we may begin to understand and worship. Let us then confine ourselves to our own system and be glad if we can catch some ray of the glory that illumines it. Viṣhṇu has His own functions, as also have Brahmâ and Mahâdeva. The first work in this system is done by the third of the sacred great Ones of the Trimûrti, Brahmâ, as you all know, for you have read that there came forth the creative Intelligence as the third of the divine manifestations. I care not what is the symbology you take; perchance that of the _Viṣhṇu Purâṇa_ will be most familiar, wherein the unmanifested Viṣhṇu is beneath the water, standing as the first of the Trimûrti, then the Lotus, standing as the second, and the opened Lotus showing Brahmâ, the third, the creative Mind. You may remember that the work of creation began with His activity. When we study from the occult standpoint in what that activity consisted, we find it consisted in impregnating with His own life the matter of the solar system; that He gave His own life to build up form after form of atom, to make the great divisions in the kosmos; that He formed, one after another, the five kinds of matter. Working by His mind--He is sometimes spoken of as Mahat, the great One, Intelligence--He formed Tattvas one after another. Tattvas, you may remember from last year, are the foundations of the atoms, and there are five of them manifested at the present time. That is His special work. Then He meditates, and forms--as thoughts--come forth. There His manifest work may be said to end, though He maintains ever the life of the atom. As far as the active work of the kosmos is concerned, He gives way to the next of the great forces that is to work, the force of Viṣhṇu. His work is to gather together that matter that has been built, shaped, prepared, vivified, and build it into definite forms after the creative ideas brought forth by the meditation of Brahmâ. He gives to matter a binding force; He gives to it those energies that hold form together. No form exists without Him, whether it be moving or unmoving. How often does Shrî Kṛiṣhṇa, speaking as the supreme Viṣhṇu, lay stress on this fact. He is the life in every form; without it the form could not exist, without it it would go back to its primeval elements and no longer live as form. He is the all-pervading life; the "Supporter of the Universe" is one of His names. Mahâdeva has a different function in the universe; especially is He the great Yogî; especially is He the great Teacher, the Mahâguru; He is sometimes called Jagatguru, the Teacher of the world. Over and over again--to take a comparatively modern example, as the _Gurugîtâ_--we find Him as Teacher, to whom Pârvati goes asking for instruction as to the nature of the Guru. He it is who defines the Guru's work, He it is who inspires the Guru's teaching. Every Guru on earth is a reflection of Mahâdeva, and it is His life which he is commissioned to give out to the world. Yogî, immersed in contemplation, taking the ascetic form always--that marks out His functions. For the symbols by which the mighty Ones are shown in the teachings are not meaningless, but are replete with the deepest meaning. And when you see Him represented as the eternal Yogî, with the cord in His hand, sitting as an ascetic in contemplation, it means that He is the supreme ideal of the ascetic life, and that men who come especially under His influence must pass out of home, out of family, out of the normal ties of evolution, and give themselves to a life of asceticism, to a life of renunciation, to share, however feebly, in that mighty yoga by which the universe is kept alive. He then manifests not as Avatâra, but such manifestations come from Him who is the God, the Spirit, of evolution, who evolves all forms. That is why from Viṣhṇu all these Avatâras come. For it is He who by His infinite love dwells in every form that He has made; with patience that nothing can exhaust, with love that nothing can tire, with quiet, calm endurance which no folly of man can shake from its eternal peace, He lives in every form, moulding it as it will bear the moulding, shaping it as it yields itself to His impulse, binding Himself, limiting Himself in order that His universe may grow, Lord of eternal life and bliss, dwelling in every form. If you grasp this, it is not difficult to say why from Him alone the Avatâras come. Who else should take form save the One who gives form? who else should work with this unending love save He, who, while the universe exists, binds Himself that the universe may live and ultimately share His freedom? He is bound that the universe may be free. Who else then should come forth when special need arises? And He gives the great types. Let me remind you of the _Shrîmad-Bhâgavata_, where in an early chapter of the first Book, the 3rd chapter, a very long list is given of the forms that Viṣhṇu took, not only the great Avatâras, but also a large number of others. It is said He appeared as Nara and Nârâyana; it is said He appeared as Kapila; He took female forms, and so on, a whole long list being given of the shapes that He assumed. And, turning from that to a very illuminative passage in the _Mahâbhârata_, we find Him in the form of Shrî Kṛiṣhṇa explaining a profound truth to Arjuna. There He gives the law of these appearances: "When, O son of Pritha, I live in the order of the deities, then I act in every respect as a deity. When I live in the order of the Gandharvas, then I act in every respect as a Gandharva. When I live in the order of the Nâgas, I act as a Nâga. When I live in the order of the Yakshas, or that of the Râkshasas, I act after the manner of that order. Born now in the order of humanity, I must act as a human being." A profound truth, a truth that few in modern times recognise. Every type in the universe, in its own place, is good; every type in the universe, in its own place, is necessary. There is no life save His life; how then could any type come into existence apart from the universal life, bereft whereof nothing can exist? We speak of good forms and evil, and rightly, as regards our own evolution. But from the wider standpoint of the kosmos, good and evil are relative terms, and everything is very good in the sight of the Supreme who lives in every one. How can a type come into existence in which He cannot live? How can anything live and move, save as it has its being in Him? Each type has its work; each type has its place; the type of the Râkshasa as much as the type of the Deva, of the Asura as much as of the Sura. Let me give you one curious little simple example, which yet has a certain graphic force. You have a pole you want to move, and that pole is on a pivot, like the mountain which churned the ocean, a pole with its two ends, positive and negative we will call them. The positive end, we will say, is pushed in the direction of the river (the river flowing beyond one end of the hall at Adyar). The negative pole is pushed--in what direction? In the opposite. And those who are pushing it have their faces turned in the opposite direction. One man looks at the river, the other man has his back to it, looking in the opposite direction. But the pole turns in the one direction although they push in opposite directions. They are working round the same circle, and the pole goes faster because it is pushed from its two ends. There is the picture of our universe. The positive force you call the Deva or Sura; his face is turned, it seems, to God. The negative force you call the Râkshasa or Asura; his face, it seems, is turned away from God. Ah no! God is everywhere, in every point of the circle round which they tread; and they tread His circle and do His will and no otherwise; and all at length find rest and peace in Him. Therefore Shrî Kṛiṣhṇa Himself can incarnate in the form of Râkshasa, and when in that form He will act as Râkshasa and not as Deva, doing that part of the divine work with the same perfection as He does the other, which men in their limited vision call the good. A great truth hard to grasp. I shall have to return to it presently in speaking of Râvana, one of the mightiest types of, perhaps the greatest of, all the Râkshasas. And we shall see, if we can follow, how the profound truth works out. But remember, if in the minds of some of you there is some hesitation in accepting this, that the words that I read are not mine, but those of the Lord who spoke of His own embodying; He has left on record for your teaching, that He has embodied Himself in the form of Râkshasa and has acted after the manner of that order. Leaving that for a moment, there is one other point I must take, ere speaking of the need for Avatâras, and it is this: when the great central Deities have manifested, then there come forth from Them seven Deities of what we may call the second order. In Theosophy, they are spoken of as the planetary Logoi, to distinguish them from the great solar Logoi, the central Life. Each of These has to do with one of the seven sacred planets, and with the chain of worlds connected with that planet. Our world is one of the links in this chain, and you and I pass round this chain in successive incarnations in the great stages of life. The world--our present world--is the midway globe of one such chain. One Logos of the secondary order presides over the evolution of this chain of worlds. He shows out three aspects, reflections of the great Logoi who are at the centre of the system. You have read perhaps of the seven-leaved lotus, the Saptaparnapadma; looked at with the higher sight, gazed at with the open vision of the seer, that mighty group of creative and directing Beings looks like the lotus with its seven leaves and the great Ones are at the heart of the lotus. It is as though you could see a vast lotus-flower spread out in space, the tips of the seven leaves being the mighty Intelligences presiding over the evolution of the chains of worlds. That lotus symbol is no mere symbol but a high reality, as seen in that wondrous world wherefrom the symbol has been taken by the sages. And because the great Ṛishis of old saw with the open eye of knowledge, saw the lotus-flower spread in space, they took it as the symbol of kosmos, the lotus with its seven leaves, each one a mighty Deva presiding over a separate line of evolution. We are primarily concerned with our own planetary Deva and through Him with the great Devas of the solar system. Now my reason for mentioning this is to explain one word that has puzzled many students. Mahâviṣhṇu, the great Viṣhṇu, why that particular epithet? What does it mean when that phrase is used? It means the great solar Logos, Viṣhṇu in His essential nature: but there is a reflection of His glory, a reflection of His power, of His love, in more immediate connection with ourselves and our own world. He is His representative, as a viceroy may represent the king. Some of the Avatâras we shall find came forth from Mahâviṣhṇu through the planetary Logos, who is concerned with our evolution and the evolution of the world. But the Pûrṇâvatâra that I spoke of yesterday comes forth directly from Mahâviṣhṇu, with no intermediary between Himself and the world that He comes to help. Here is another distinction between the Pûrṇâvatâra and those more limited ones, that I could not mention yesterday, because the words used would, at that stage, have been unintelligible. We shall find to-morrow, when we come to deal with the Avatâras Matsya, Kûrma, and so on, that these special Avatâras, connected with the evolution of certain types in the world, while indirectly from Mahâviṣhṇu, come through the mediation of His mighty representative for our own chain, the wondrous Intelligence that conveys His love and ministers His will, and is the channel of His all-pervading and supporting power. When we come to study Shrî Kṛiṣhṇa we shall find that there is no intermediary. He stands as the Supreme Himself. And while in the other cases there is the Presence that may be recognised as an intermediary, it is absent in the case of the great Lord of Life. Leaving that for further elaboration then to-morrow, let us try to answer the next question, "How arises this need for Avatâras?" because in the minds of some, quite naturally, a difficulty does arise. The difficulty that many thoughtful people feel may be formulated thus: "Surely the whole plan of the world is in the mind of the Logos from the beginning, and surely we cannot suppose that He is working like a human workman, not thoroughly understanding that at which He aims. He must be the architect as well as the builder; He must make the plan as well as carry it out. He is not like the mason who puts a stone in the wall where he is told, and knows nothing of the architecture of the building to which he is contributing. He is the master-builder, the great architect of the universe, and everything in the plan of that universe must be in His mind ere ever the universe began. But if that be so--and we cannot think otherwise--how is it that the need for special intervention arises? Does not the fact of special intervention imply some unforeseen difficulty that has arisen? If there must be a kind of interference with the working out of the plan, does that not look as if in the original plan some force was left out of account, some difficulty had not been seen, something had arisen for which preparation had not been made? If it be not so, why the need for interference, which looks as though it were brought about to meet an unforeseen event?" A natural, reasonable, and perfectly fair question. Let us try to answer it. I do not believe in shirking difficulties; it is better to look them in the face, and see if an answer be possible. Now the answer comes along three different lines. There are three great classes of facts, each of which contributes to the necessity; and each, foreseen by the Logos, is definitely prepared for as needing a particular manifestation. The first of these lines arises from what I may perhaps call the nature of things. I remarked at the beginning of this lecture on the fact that our universe, our system, is part of a greater whole, not separate, not independent, not primary, in comparatively a low scale in the universe, our sun a planet in a vaster system. Now what does that imply? As regards matter, Prakṛiti, it implies that our system is builded out of matter already existing, out of matter already gifted with certain properties, out of matter that spreads through all space, and from which every Logos takes His materials, modifying it according to His own plan and according to His own will. When we speak of Mûlaprakṛiti, the root of matter, we do not mean that it exists as the matter we know. No philosopher, no thinker would dream of saying that that which spreads throughout space is identical with the matter of our very elementary solar system. It is the root of matter, that of which all forms of matter are merely modifications. What does that imply? It implies that our great Lord, who brought our solar system into existence, is taking matter which already has certain properties given to it by One yet mightier than Himself. In that matter three guṇas exist in equilibrium, and it is the breath of the Logos that throws them out of equilibrium, and causes the motion by which our system is brought into existence. There must be a throwing out of equilibrium, for equilibrium means Pralaya, where there is not motion, nor any manifestation of life and form. When life and form come forth, equilibrium must have been disturbed, and motion must be liberated by which the world shall be built. But the moment you grasp that truth you see that there must be certain limitations by virtue of the very material in which the Deity is working for the making of the system. It is true that when out of His system, when not conditioned and confined and limited by it, as He is by His most gracious will, it is true that He would be the Lord of that matter by virtue of His union with the mightier Life beyond; but when for the building of the world He limits Himself within His Mâyâ, then He must work within the conditions of those materials that limit His activity, as we are told over and over again. Now when in the ceaseless interplay of Sattva, Rajas, and Tamas, Tamas has the ascendancy, aided and, as it were, worked by Rajas, so that they predominate over Sattva in the foreseen evolution, when the two combining overpower the third, when the force of Rajas and the inertia and stubbornness of Tamas, binding themselves together, check the action, the harmony, the pleasure-giving qualities of Sattva, then comes one of the conditions in which the Lord comes forth to restore that which had been disturbed of the balanced interworking of the three guṇas and to make again such balance between them as shall enable evolution to go forward smoothly and not be checked in its progress. He re-establishes the balance of power which gives orderly motion, the order having been disturbed by the co-operation of the two in contradistinction to the third. In these fundamental attributes of matter, the three guṇas, lies the first reason of the need for Avatâras. The second need has to do with man himself, and now we come back in both the second and the third to that question of good and evil, of which I have already spoken. I´shvara, when He came to deal with the evolution of man--with all reverence I say it--had a harder task to perform than in the evolution of the lower forms of life. On them the law is imposed and they must obey its impulse. On the mineral the law is compulsory; every mineral moves according to the law, without interposing any impulse from itself to work against the will of the One. In the vegetable world the law is imposed, and every plant grows in orderly method according to the law within it, developing steadily and in the fashion of its order, interposing no impulse of its own. Nay, in the animal world--save perhaps when we come to its highest members--the law is still a force overpowering everything else, sweeping everything before it, carrying along all living things. A wheel turning on the road might carry with it on its axle the fly that happened to have settled there; it does not interpose any obstacle to the turning of the wheel. If the fly comes on to the circumference of the wheel and opposes itself to its motion, it is crushed without the slightest jarring of the wheel that rolls on, and the form goes out of existence, and the life takes other shapes. So is the wheel of law in the three lower kingdoms. But with man it is not so. In man I´shvara sets himself to produce an image of Himself, which is not the case in the lower kingdoms. As life has evolved, one force after another has come out, and in man there begins to come out the central life, for the time has arrived for the evolution of the sovereign power of will, the self-initiated motion which is part of the life of the Supreme. Do not misunderstand me--for the subject is a subtle one; there is only one will in the universe, the will of I´shvara, and all must conform itself to that will, all is conditioned by that will, all must move according to that will, and that will marks out the straight line of evolution. There may be swerving neither to the right hand nor to the left. There is one will only which in its aspect to us is free, but inasmuch as our life is the life of I´shvara Himself, inasmuch as there is but one Self and that Self is yours and mine as much as His--for He has given us His very Self to be our Self and our life--there must evolve at one stage of this wondrous evolution that royal power of will which is seen in Him. And from the A´tmâ within us, which is Himself in us, there flows forth the sovereign will into the sheaths in which the A´tmâ is as it were held. Now what happens is this: force goes out through the sheaths and gives them some of its own nature, and each sheath begins to set up a reflection of the will on its own account, and you get the "I" of the body which wants to go this way, and the "I" of passion or emotion which wants to go that way, and the "I" of the mind which wants to go a third way, and none of these ways is the way of the A´tmâ, the Supreme. These are the illusory wills of man, and there is one way in which you may distinguish them from the true will. Each of them is determined in
for God's sake let me keep my father's name?" "It is mine, and mine alone," said the younger brother, and then a heavy and solitary tear, the last he was to shed for forty years, dropped slowly down John Nuneham's hard-drawn face, for at that instant the well of his heart ran dry. "As you will," he said. "But if it is your pride that is doing this I shall humble it, and if it is your greed I shall live long enough to make it ashamed." From that day forward he dedicated his life to one object only, the founding of a family that should far eclipse the family of his brother, and his first step towards that end was to drop his father's surname in the register of his regiment and assume his mother's name of Lord. At that moment England with two other European Powers had, like Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego, entered the fiery furnace of Egyptian affairs, though not so much to withstand as to protect the worship of the golden image. A line of Khedives, each seeking his own advantage, had culminated in one more unscrupulous and tyrannical than the rest, who had seized the lands of the people, borrowed money upon them in Europe, wasted it in wicked personal extravagance, as well as in reckless imperial expenditure that had not yet had time to yield a return, and thus brought the country to the brink of ruin, with the result that England was left alone at last to occupy Egypt, much as Rome occupied Palestine, and to find a man to administer her affairs in a position analogous to that of Pontius Pilate. It found him in John Lord, the young Financial Secretary who had distinguished himself in India. His task was one of immense difficulty, for though nominally no more than the British Consul-General, he was really the ruler of the country, being representative of the sovereign whose soldiers held Egypt in their grip. Realising at once that he was the official receiver to a bankrupt nation, he saw that his first duty was to make it solvent. He did make it solvent. In less than five years Egypt was able to pay her debt to Europe. Therefore Europe was satisfied, England was pleased, and John Lord was made Knight of the Order of St. Michael and St. George. Then he married a New England girl whom he had met in Cairo, daughter of a Federal General in the Civil War, a gentle creature, rather delicate, a little sentimental, and very religious. During the first years their marriage was childless, and the wife, seeing with a woman's sure eyes that her husband's hope had been for a child, began to live within herself, and to weep when no one could see. But at last a child came, and it was a son, and she was overjoyed and the Consul-General was content. He allowed her to christen the child by what name she pleased, so she gave him the name of her great Christian hero, Charles George Gordon. They called the boy Gordon, and the little mother was very happy. But her health became still more delicate, so a nurse had to be looked for, and they found one in an Egyptian woman--with a child of her own--who, by power of a pernicious law of Mohammedan countries, had been divorced through no fault of hers, at the whim of a husband who wished to marry another wife. Thus Hagar, with her little Ishmael, became foster-mother to the Consul-General's son, and the two children were suckled together and slept in the same cot. Years passed, during which the boy grew up like a little Arab in the Englishman's house, while his mother devoted herself more and more to the exercises of her religion, and his father, without failing in affectionate attention to either of them, seemed to bury his love for both too deep in his heart and to seal it with a seal, although the Egyptian nurse was sometimes startled late at night by seeing the Consul-General coming noiselessly into her room before going to his own, to see if it was well with his child. Meantime as ruler of Egypt the Consul-General was going from strength to strength, and seeing that the Nile is the most wonderful river in the world and the father of the country through which it flows, he determined that it should do more than moisten the lips of the Egyptian desert while the vast body lay parched with thirst. Therefore he took engineers up to the fork of the stream where the clear and crystal Blue Nile of Khartoum, tumbling down in mighty torrents from the volcanic gorges of the Abyssinian hills, crosses the slow and sluggish White Nile of Omdurman, and told them to build dams, so that the water should not be wasted into the sea, but spread over the arid land, leaving the glorious sun of Egypt to do the rest. The effect was miraculous. Nature, the great wonder-worker, had come to his aid, and never since the Spirit of God first moved upon the face of the waters had anything so marvellous been seen. The barren earth brought forth grass and the desert blossomed like a rose. Land values increased; revenues were enlarged; poor men became rich; rich men became millionaires; Egypt became a part of Europe; Cairo became a European city; the record of the progress of the country began to sound like a story from the "Arabian Nights," and the Consul-General's annual reports read like fresh chapters out of the Book of Genesis, telling of the creation of a new heaven and a new earth. The remaking of Egypt was the wonder of the world; the faces of the Egyptians were whitened; England was happy, and Sir John Lord was made a baronet. His son had gone to school in England by this time, and from Eton he was to go on to Sandhurst and to take up the career of a soldier. Then, thinking the Englishman's mission on foreign soil was something more than to make money, the Consul-General attempted to regenerate the country. He had been sent out to re-establish the authority of the Khedive, yet he proceeded to curtail it; to suppress the insurrection of the people, yet he proceeded to enlarge their liberties. Setting up a high standard of morals, both in public and private life, he tolerated no trickery. Finding himself in a cockpit of corruption, he put down bribery, slavery, perjury, and a hundred kinds of venality and intrigue. Having views about individual justice and equal rights before the law, he cleansed the law courts, established a Christian code of morals between man and man, and let the light of Western civilisation into the mud hut of the Egyptian fellah. Mentally, morally, and physically his massive personality became the visible soul of Egypt. If a poor man was wronged in the remotest village he said, "I'll write to Lord," and the threat was enough. He became the visible conscience of Egypt, too, and if a rich man was tempted to do a doubtful deed he thought of "the Englishman" and the doubtful deed was not done. The people at the top of the ladder trusted him, and the people at the bottom, a simple, credulous, kindly race, who were such as sixty centuries of mis-government had made them, touched their breasts, their lips, and their foreheads at the mention of his name, and called him "The Father of Egypt." England was proud, and Sir John Lord was made a peer. When the King's letter reached him he took it to his wife, who now lay for long hours every day on the couch in the drawing-room, and then wrote to his son, who had left Sandhurst and was serving with his regiment in the Soudan, but he said nothing to anybody else, and left even his secretary to learn the great news through the newspapers. He was less reserved when he came to select his title, and remembering his brother he found a fierce joy in calling himself by his father's name, thinking he had earned the right to it. Twenty-five years had passed since he had dedicated his life to the founding of a family that should eclipse and even humiliate the family of his brother, and now his secret aim was realised. He saw a long line succeeding him, his son, and his son's son, and his son's son's son, all peers of the realm, and all Nunehams. His revenge was sweet; he was very happy. CHAPTER IV If Lord Nuneham had died then, or if he had passed away from Egypt, he would have left an enduring fame as one of the great Englishmen who twice or thrice in a hundred years carve their names on the granite page of the world's history; but he went on and on, until it sometimes looked as if in the end it might be said of him, in the phrase of the Arab proverb, that he had written his name in water. Having achieved one object of ambition, he set himself another, and having tasted power he became possessed by the lust of it. Great men had been in England when he first came to Egypt, and he had submitted to their instructions without demur, but now, wincing under the orders of inferior successors, he told himself, not idly boasting, that nobody in London knew his work as well as he did, and he must be liberated from the domination of Downing Street. The work of emancipation was delicate but not difficult. There was one power stronger than any Government, whereby public opinion might be guided and controlled--the press. The British Consul-General in Cairo was in a position of peculiar advantage for guiding and controlling the press. He did guide and control it. What he thought it well that Europe should know about Egypt that it knew, and that only. The generally ill-informed public opinion in England was corrected; the faulty praise and blame of the British press was set right; within five years London had ceased to send instructions to Cairo; and when a diplomatic question created a fuss in Parliament the Consul-General was heard to say-- "I don't care a rush what the Government think, and I don't care a straw what the Foreign Minister says; I have a power stronger than either at my back--the public." It was true, but it was also the beginning of the end. Having attained to absolute power, he began to break up from the seeds of dissolution which always hide in the heart of it. Hitherto he had governed Egypt by guiding a group of gifted Englishmen who as Secretaries and Advisers had governed the Egyptian Governors; but now he desired to govern everything himself. As a consequence the gifted men had to go, and their places were taken by subordinates whose best qualification was their subservience to his strong and masterful spirit. Even that did not matter as long as his own strength served him. He knew and determined everything, from the terms of treaties with foreign Powers to the wages of the Khedive's English coachman. With five thousand British bayonets to enforce his will, he said to a man, "Do that," and the man did it, or left Egypt without delay. No Emperor or Czar or King was ever more powerful, no Pope more infallible; but if his rule was hard, it was also just, and for some years yet Egypt was well governed. "When a fish goes bad," the Arabs say, "is it first at the head or at the tail?" As Lord Nuneham grew old, his health began to fail, and he had to fall back on the weaklings who were only fit to carry out his will. Then an undertone of murmuring was heard in Egypt. The Government was the same, yet it was altogether different. The hand was Esau's, but the voice was Jacob's. "The millstones are grinding," said the Egyptians, "but we see no flour." The glowing fire of the great Englishman's fame began to turn to ashes, and a cloud no bigger than a man's hand appeared in the sky. His Advisers complained to him of friction with their Ministers; his Inspectors, returning from tours in the country, gave him reports of scant courtesy at the hands of natives, and to account for their failures they worked up in his mind the idea of a vast racial and religious conspiracy. The East was the East; the West was the West; Moslem was Moslem; Christian was Christian; Egyptians cared more about Islam than they did about good government, and Europeans in the valley of the Nile, especially British soldiers and officials, were living on the top of a volcano. The Consul-General listened to them with a sour smile, but he believed them and blundered. He was a sick man now, and he was not really living in Egypt any longer--he was only sleeping at the Agency; and he thought he saw the work of his lifetime in danger of being undone. So, thinking to end fanaticism by one crushing example, he gave his subordinates an order like that which the ancient King of Egypt gave to the midwives, with the result that five men were hanged and a score were flogged before their screaming wives and children for an offence that had not a particle of religious or political significance. A cry of horror went up through Egypt; the Consul-General had lost it; his forty years of great labour had been undone in a day. As every knife is out when the bull is down, so the place-hunting Pashas, the greedy Sheikhs, and the cruel Governors whose corruptions he had suppressed found instruments to stab him, and the people who had kissed the hand they dared not bite thought it safe to bite the hand they need not kiss. He had opened the mouths of his enemies, and in Eastern manner they assailed him first by parables. Once there had been a great English eagle; its eyes were clear and piercing; its talons were firm and relentless in their grip; yet it was a proud and noble bird; it held its own against East and West, and protected all who took refuge under its wing; but now the eagle had grown old and weak; other birds, smaller and meaner, had deprived it of its feathers and picked out its eyes, and it had become blind and cruel and cowardly and sly--would nobody shoot it or shut it up in a cage? Rightly or wrongly, the Consul-General became convinced that the Khedive was intriguing against him, and one day he drove to the royal palace and demanded an audience. The interview that followed was not the first of many stormy scenes between the real governor of Egypt and its nominal ruler, and when Lord Nuneham strode out with his face aflame, through the line of the quaking bodyguard, he left the Khedive protesting plaintively to the people of his court that he would sell up all and leave the country. At that the officials put their heads together in private, concluded that the present condition could not last, and asked themselves how, since it was useless to expect England to withdraw the Consul-General, it was possible for Egypt to get rid of him. By this time Lord Nuneham, in the manner of all strong men growing weak, had begun to employ spies, and one day a Syrian Christian told him a secret story. He was to be assassinated. The crime was to be committed in the Opera House, under the cover of a general riot, on the night of the Khedive's State visit, when the Consul-General was always present. As usual the Khedive was to rise at the end of the first act and retire to the saloon overlooking the square; as usual he was to send for Lord Nuneham to follow him, and the moment of the Khedive's return to his box was to be the signal for a rival demonstration of English and Egyptians that was to end in the Consul-General's death. There was no reason to believe the Khedive himself was party to the plot, or that he knew anything about it, yet none the less it was necessary to stay away, to find an excuse--illness at the last moment--anything. Lord Nuneham was not afraid, but he sent up to the Citadel for General Graves, and arranged that a battalion of infantry and a battery of artillery were to be marched down to the Opera Square at a message over the telephone from him. "If anything happens, you know what to do," he said; and the General knew perfectly. Then the night came, and the moment the Khedive left his palace the Consul-General heard of it. A moment later a message was received at the Citadel, and a quarter of an hour afterwards Lord Nuneham was taking his place at the Opera. The air of the house tingled with excitement, and everything seemed to justify the Syrian's story. Sure enough, at the end of the first act the Khedive rose and retired to the saloon, and sure enough at the next moment the Consul-General was summoned to follow him. His Highness was very gracious, very agreeable, all trace of their last stormy interview being gone; and gradually Lord Nuneham drew him up to the windows overlooking the public square. There, under the sparkling light of a dozen electric lamps, in a solid line surrounding the Opera House, stood a battalion of infantry, with the guns of the artillery facing outward at every corner; and at sight of them the Khedive caught his breath and said-- "What is the meaning of this, my lord?" "Only a little attention to your Highness," said the Consul-General in a voice that was intended to be heard all over the room. At that instant somebody came up hurriedly and whispered to the Khedive, who turned ashen white, ordered his carriage, and went home immediately. Next morning at eleven, Lord Nuneham, with the same force drawn up in front of Abdeen Palace, went in to see the Khedive again. "There's a train for Alexandria at twelve," he said, "and a steamer for Constantinople at five--your Highness will feel better for a little holiday in Europe!" and half-an-hour afterwards the Khedive, accompanied by several of his Court officials, was on his way to the railway station, with the escort, in addition to his own bodyguard, of a British regiment whose band was playing the Khedivial hymn. He had got rid of the Khedive at a critical juncture, but he had still to deal with a sovereign that would not easily be chloroformed into silence. The Arabic press, to which he had been the first to give liberty, began to attack him openly, to vilify him, and systematically to misrepresent his actions, so that he who had been the great torch-bearer of light in a dark country saw himself called the Great Adventurer, the Tyrant, the Assassin, the worst Pharaoh Egypt had ever known--a Pharaoh surrounded by a kindergarten of false prophets, obsessed by preposterous fears of assassination and deluded by phantoms of fanaticism. His subordinates told him that these hysterical tirades were inflaming the whole of Egypt; that their influence was in proportion to their violence; that the huge, untaught mass of the Egyptian people were listening to them; that there was not an ignorant fellah possessed of one ragged garment who did not go to the coffee-house at night to hear them read; that the lives of British officials were in peril; and that the promulgation of sedition must be stopped, or the British governance of the country could not go on. A sombre fire shone in the Consul-General's eyes while he heard their prophecy, but he believed it all the same, and when he spoke contemptuously of incendiary articles as froth, and they answered that froth could be stained with blood, he told himself that if fools and ingrates spouting nonsense in Arabic could destroy whatever germs of civilisation he had implanted in Egypt, the doctrine of the liberty of the press was all moonshine. And so, after sinister efforts to punish the whole people for the excesses of their journalists by enlarging the British army and making the country pay the expense, he found a means to pass a new press law, to promulgate it by help of the Prime Minister, now Regent in the Khedive's place, and to suppress every native newspaper in Egypt in one day. By that blow the Egyptians were staggered into silence, the British officials went about with stand-off manners and airs of conscious triumph, and Lord Nuneham himself, mistaking violence for power, thought he was master of Egypt once more. But low, very low on the horizon a new planet now rose in the firmament. It was not the star of a Khedive jealous of Nuneham's power, nor of an Egyptian Minister chafing under the orders of his Under-Secretary, nor yet of a journalist vilifying England and flirting with France, but that of a simple Arab in turban and caftan, a swarthy son of the desert whose name no man had heard before, and it was rising over the dome of the mosque within whose sacred precincts neither the Consul-General nor his officials could intrude, and where the march of British soldiers could not be made. There a reverberation was being heard, a now voice was going forth, and it was echoing and re-echoing through the hushed chambers that were the heart of Islam. When Lord Nuneham first asked about the Arab he was told that the man was one Ishmael Ameer, out of the Libyan Desert, a carpenter's son, and a fanatical, backward, unenlightened person of no consequence whatever; but with his sure eye for the political heavens, the Consul-General perceived that a planet of no common magnitude had appeared in the Egyptian firmament, and that it would avail him nothing to have suppressed the open sedition of the newspapers if he had only driven it underground, into the mosques, where it would be a hundredfold more dangerous.. If a political agitation was not to be turned into religious unrest, if fanaticism was not to conquer civilisation and a holy war to carry the country back to its old rotten condition of bankruptcy and barbarity, that man out of the Libyan Desert must be put down. But how and by whom? He himself was old--more than seventy years old--his best days were behind him, the road in front of him must be all downhill now; and when he looked around among the sycophants who said, "Yes, my lord," "Excellent, my lord," "The very thing, my lord," for some one to fight the powers of darkness that were arrayed against him, he saw none. It was in this mood that he had gone to the sham fight, merely because he had to show himself in public; and there, sitting immediately in front of the fine girl who was to be his daughter soon, and feeling at one moment her quick breathing on his neck, he had been suddenly caught up by the spirit of her enthusiasm and had seen his son as he had never seen him before. Putting his glasses to his eyes he had watched him--he and (as it seemed) the girl together. Such courage, such fire, such resource, such insight, such foresight! It must be the finest brain and firmest character in Egypt, and it was his own flesh and blood, his own son Gordon! Hitherto his attitude towards Gordon had been one of placid affection, compounded partly of selfishness, being proud that he was no fool and could forge along in his profession, and pleased to think of him as the next link in the chain of the family he was founding; but now everything was changed. The right man to put down sedition was the man at his right hand. He would save England against Egyptian aggression; he would save his father too, who was old and whose strength was spent, and perhaps--why not?--he would succeed him some day and carry on the traditions of his work in the conquests of civilisation and its triumph in the dark countries of the world. For the first time for forty years a heavy and solitary tear dropped slowly down the Consul-General's cheek, now deeply scored with lines; but no one saw it, because few dared look into his face. The man who had never unburdened himself to a living soul wished to unburden himself at last, so he scribbled his note to Gordon and then stepped into the carriage that was to take him home. Meantime he was aware that some fool had provoked a demonstration, but that troubled him hardly at all; and while the crackling cries of "Long live Egypt!" were following him down the arena he was being borne along as by invisible wings. Thus the two aims in the great Proconsul's life had become one, and that one aim centred in his son. CHAPTER V As Gordon went into the British Agency a small, wizened man with a pock-marked face, wearing Oriental dress, came out. He was the Grand Cadi (Chief Judge) of the Mohammedan courts and representative of the Sultan of Turkey in Egypt, one who had secretly hated the Consul-General and raved against the English rule for years; and as he saluted obsequiously with his honeyed voice and smiled with his crafty eyes, it flashed upon Gordon--he did not know why--that just so must Caiaphas, the high priest, have looked when he came out of Pilate's judgment hall after saying, "If thou let this man go thou art not Cæsar's friend." Gordon leapt up the steps and into the house as one who was at home, and going first into the shaded drawing-room he found his mother on the couch looking to the sunset and the Nile--a sweet old lady in the twilight of life, with white hair, a thin face almost as white, and the pale smile of a patient soul who had suffered pain. With her, attending upon her, and at that moment handing a cup of chicken broth to her, was a stout Egyptian woman with a good homely countenance--Gordon's old nurse, Fatimah. His mother turned at the sound of his voice, roused herself on the couch, and with that startled cry of joy which has only one note in all nature, that of a mother meeting her beloved son, she cried, "Gordon! Gordon!" and clasped her delicate hands about his neck. Before he could prevent it, his foster-mother, too, muttering in Eastern manner, "O my eye! O my soul!" had snatched one of his hands and was smothering it with kisses. "And how is Helena?" his mother asked, in her low, sweet voice. "Beautiful!" said Gordon. "She couldn't help being that. But why doesn't she come to see me?" "I think she's anxious about her father's health, and is afraid to leave him," said Gordon; and then Fatimah, with blushes showing through her Arab skin, said-- "Take care! a house may hold a hundred men, but the heart of a woman has only room for one of them." "Ah, but Helena's heart is as wide as a well, mammy," said Gordon; whereupon Fatimah said-- "That's the way, you see! When a young man is in love there are only two sort of girls in the world--ordinary girls and his girl." At that moment, while the women laughed, Gordon heard his father's deep voice in the hall saying, "Bid good-bye to my wife before you go, Reg," and then the Consul-General, with "Here's Gordon also," came into the drawing-room, followed by Sir Reginald Mannering, Sirdar of the Egyptian army and Governor of the Soudan, who said-- "Splendid, my boy! Not forgotten your first fight, I see! Heavens, I felt as if I was back at Omdurman and wanted to get at the demons again." "Gordon," said the Consul-General, "see His Excellency to the door and come to me in the library;" and when the Sirdar was going out at the porch he whispered-- "Go easy with the Governor, my boy. Don't let anything cross him. Wonderful man, but I see a difference since I was down last year. Bye-bye!" Gordon found his father writing a letter, with his _kawas_ Ibrahim, in green caftan and red waistband, waiting by the side of the desk, in the library, a plain room, formal as an office, being walled with bookcases full of Blue Books, and relieved by two pictures only--a portrait of his mother when she was younger than he could remember to have seen her, and one of himself when he was a child and wore an Arab fez and slippers. "The General--the Citadel," said the Consul-General, giving his letter to Ibrahim; and as soon as the valet was gone he wheeled his chair round to Gordon and began-- "I've been writing to your General for his formal consent, having something I wish you to do for me." "With pleasure, sir," said Gordon. "You know all about the riots at Alexandria?" "Only what I've learned from the London papers, sir. "Well, for some time past the people there have been showing signs of effervescence. First, strikes of cabmen, carters, God knows what--all concealing political issues. Then, open disorder. Europeans hustled and spat upon in the streets. A sheikh crying aloud in the public thoroughfares, 'O Moslems, come and help me to drive out the Christians.' Then a Greek merchant warned to take care, as the Arabs were going to kill the Christians that day or the day following. Then low-class Moslems shouting in the square of Mohammed Ali, 'The last day of the Christians is drawing nigh.' As a consequence there have been conflicts. The first of them was trivial, and the police scattered the rioters with a water-hose. The second was more serious, and some Europeans were wounded. The third was alarming, and several natives had to be arrested. Well, when I look for the cause I find the usual one." "What is it, sir?" asked Gordon. "Egypt has at all times been subject to local insurrections. They are generally of a religious character, and are set on foot by madmen who give themselves out as divinely-inspired leaders. But shall I tell you what it all means?" "Tell me, sir," said Gordon. The Consul-General rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room with long strides and heavy tread. "It means," he said, "that the Egyptians, like all other Mohammedans, are cut off by their religion from the spirit and energy of the great civilised nations--that, swathed in the bands of the Koran, the Moslem faith is like a mummy, dead to all uses of the modern world." The Consul-General drew up sharply and continued-- "Perhaps all dogmatic religions are more or less like that, but the Christian religion has accommodated itself to the spirit of the ages, whereas Islam remains fixed, the religion of the seventh century, born in a desert and suckled in a society that was hardly better than barbarism." He began to walk again and to talk with great animation. "What does Islam mean? It means slavery, seclusion of women, indiscriminate divorce, unlimited polygamy, the breakdown of the family and the destruction of the nation. Well, what happens? Civilisation comes along, and it is death to all such dark ways. What next? The scheming Sheikhs, the corrupt Pashas, the tyrannical Caliphs, all the rascals and rogues who batten on corruption, the fanatics who are opponents of the light, cry out against it. Either they must lose their interests or civilisation must go. What then? Civilisation means the West, the West means Christianity. So 'Down with the Christians! O Moslems, help us to kill them!'" The Consul-General stopped by Gordon's chair, put his hand on his son's shoulder, and said-- "There comes a time in the history of all our Mohammedan dependencies--India, Egypt, every one of them--when England has to confront a condition like that." "And what has she to do, sir?" The Consul-General lifted his right fist and brought it down on his left palm, and said-- "To come down with a heavy hand on the lying agitators and intriguers who are leading away the ignorant populace." "I agree, sir. It is the agitators who should be punished, not the poor, emotional, credulous Egyptian people." "The Egyptian people, my boy, are graceless ingrates who under the influence of momentary passion would brain their best friend with their nabouts, and go like camels before the camel-driver." Gordon winced visibly, but only said, "Who is the camel-driver in this instance, sir?" "A certain Ishmael Ameer, preaching in the great mosque at Alexandria, the cradle of all disaffection." "An Alim?" "A teacher of some sort, saying England is the deadly foe of Islam, and must therefore be driven out." "Then he is worse than the journalists?" "Yes, we thought of the viper, forgetting the scorpion." "But is it certain he is so dangerous?" "One of the leaders of his own people has just been here to say that if we let that man go on it will be death to the rule of England in Egypt." "The Grand Cadi?" The Consul-General nodded and then said, "The cunning rogue has a grievance of his own, I find, but what's that to me? The first duty of a government is to keep order." "I agree," said Gordon. "There may be picric acid in prayers as well as in bombs." "There may." "We have to make these fanatical preachers realise that even if the onward march of progress is but faintly heard in the sealed vaults of their mosque, civilisation is standing outside the walls with its laws and, if need be, its soldiers." "You are satisfied, sir, that this man is likely to lead the poor, foolish people into rapine and slaughter?" "I recognise a bird by its flight. This is another Mahdi--I see it--I feel it," said the Consul-General, and his eyes flashed and his voice echoed like a horn. "You want me to smash the Mahdi?" "Exactly! Your namesake wanted to smash his predecessor--romantic person--too fond of guiding his conduct by reference to the prophet Isaiah; but he was right in that, and the Government was wrong, and the consequence was the massacre you represented to-day." "I have to arrest Ishmael Ameer?" "That's so, in open riot if possible, and if not, by means of testimony derived from his sermons in the mosques." "Hadn't we better begin there, sir--make sure that he is inciting the people to violence?" "As you please!" "You don't forget that the mosques are closed to me as a Christian?" The Consul-General reflected for a moment and then said-- "Where's Fatimah's son, Hafiz?" "With his regiment at Abbassiah." "Take him with you--take two other Moslem witnesses as well." "I'm to bring this new prophet back to Cairo?" "That's it--bring him here--we'll do all the rest." "What if there should be trouble with the people?" "There's a battalion of British soldiers in Alexandria. Keep a force in readiness--under arms night and day." "But if it should spread beyond Alexandria?" "So much the better for you. I mean," said the Consul-General, hesitating for the first time, "we don't want bloodshed, but if it must come to that, it must, and the eyes of England will be on you. What more can a young man want? Think of yourself"--he put his hand on his son's shoulder again--"think of yourself as on the eve of crushing England's enemies and rendering a signal service to Gordon Lord as well. And now go--go up to your General and get his formal consent. My love to Helena! Fine girl, very! She's the sort of woman who might... yes, women are the springs that move everything in this world. Bid good-bye to
gave the Upper Sixth the choice of being gradually expelled, or of handing up ringleaders for punishment. The low tone of the School was shown by the fact that several selected by the older lads were like myself, under fourteen years of age. About the middle of December I was reported on a Monday morning for being “Out of bounds, when ‘confined to gates,’ on the previous Saturday.” I pleaded guilty to being out of bounds, but added, “I was not ‘confined to gates’; it ended on Friday at sunset.” The Head said, “You are so reported, and I mean to flog you.” “The punishment for being out of bounds is 2s. 6d. fine; may I not ask the Master (he was sitting at the next desk) if he has not erred?” “No; you are a bad boy, and I’ll flog you.” “But, sir, for five years of school-life I have never been flogged.” “Now you will be:” and I was. The Reverend ---- at once expressed regret on paper for his error, and the Head Master said he was sorry for his mistake. On the Friday of the same week the decisions on the senior boys’ investigations were announced, and I heard read out: “Wood, Quartus, to be flogged, to be kept back two days, and until he repeats by heart three hundred lines of any Latin author, and to be fined £2.” It would be difficult to imagine greater travesty of justice than to so punish a boy of thirteen, and moreover by fining his parents. I urged my flogging on the Monday should cancel that now ordered, but the Head dissented, adding, “I apologised for that; and you are such a bad boy, I’ll flog you before your Form.” My twenty-two classmates were marched in to the Sixth Form classroom, and I was ordered to get up. The culprit knelt on a bench, his elbows on a desk. Two prefects held his wrists (nominally) with one hand, and the tail of his shirt with the other. When the Master was about to strike, a noise made him look round: he saw all my classmates looking at the wall. He raged, vowed he would flog them all, but in vain; for when the top boys of the class were forcibly turned about by the prefects they faced round again, and my punishment was inflicted without the additional indignity intended. My class gave me £5. I chose the Fourth Book of the _Æneid_, and next morning repeated the three hundred lines.[8] I begged my parents to let me leave, offering to go into a London office, Green’s Merchant Service, or anywhere, to avoid remaining under the Head Master. My father was negotiating with Green & Co., when shortly after I returned to Marlborough College, in February 1852, I unexpectedly received a nomination for the Royal Navy, being ordered to report for examination at the Royal Naval College, Portsmouth Dockyard, in April. I was placed in charge of Mr. Eastman, a crammer at Portsea, for three weeks, that I might acquire the necessary amount of arithmetic to satisfy the Examiner; for at Marlborough nearly all my school-time was given to Latin and Greek. Thirty-eight boys faced Captain (later Admiral) Chads on the 15th April. He read out to us half a page from the _Spectator_ deliberately, with clear enunciation, and many repetitions, so that no boy could fail to catch the words. While the Examiner was reading, “And this was a very barren spot, barren, barren,” he passed up and down the room, and as he turned his back a boy held up a sheet of paper on which he had written “baron” with a big mark of interrogation. I had time only to shake my head when Captain Chads turned, and that boy did not get into the Navy. We were given a short paper on English history, but this presented no difficulties to me, because I had been taught it by my mother at home before I could read. The examination for soldiers was often at that time even less formidable, certainly in the case of a distinguished officer who has since risen to command the Army, for on joining at Sandhurst a kindly Colonel asked him his name, and continued, “What! a son of my friend Major ----?” and on receiving an affirmative reply, said, “Go on, boy; you have passed.” CHAPTER II 1852--H.M.S. _QUEEN_, 116 GUNS Drill aloft--A daring but unpopular Captain defies a riotous crew, but is removed--Captain F. T. Michell succeeds him--Disappoints a Patronage Secretary--Officers of H.M.S. _Queen_--Some hard drinkers--Hugh Burgoyne--His stoical endurance. I joined H.M.S. _Victory_ on the 15th May, and five days later was transferred to H.M.S. _Queen_, 116 guns (a first-rate, of 3000 tons, launched in 1839, costing about £100,000). She had just returned from the Mediterranean, where she bore the Vice-Admiral’s flag, and was by universal consent allowed to be the smartest three-decker in the Fleet. She had “held the record,” to employ a term not then in use, for reefing topsails, an operation curtailing the spread of canvas, which was frequently practised every week in the summer in the Vice-Admiral’s squadron. The “yard,” or spar supporting the canvas, is lowered to the cap, and the sailors crawling out on the yard, take in a reef by passing the reef points, or in other words fasten up the upper part of the sail in a roll on to the yard. The Fleet Orders ordained time was to be recorded from the words “lower away,” which was in practice “let go,” to “belay,” as the reduced canvas was raised again to the required height. No man was supposed to be on the yard while it was being moved down or up, but usually the yardarm men, selected for activity and courage, reached the outer clew before the yard was down, and were seldom in from it till the sail was half-way up. Loss of life occasionally resulted, but the spirit of emulation always produced successors for the dangerous task. [Illustration: H.M.S. _QUEEN_ IN PLYMOUTH SOUND, 1852] In 1853 I saw this operation, which was not directly useful when completed in such haste, for the greater the speed the more ineffective was the reefing, done many times in 63 seconds; but in 1851 the _Queen’s_ men did it more than once in 59 seconds. Such almost incredible rapidity was in a measure due to the Captain, a man under whose command I now came for a few weeks. He was a strongly-built, active man, much feared, and still more disliked, by all hands on account of his severity. Nevertheless, he was respected for his activity, indomitable courage, and practical seamanship. His face was scarred by powder marks, a Marine having fired at him close up, when defending a position at Malta, which the Captain attacked at the head of a landing party. Before H.M.S. _Queen_ left the Mediterranean, one morning a treble-reefed topsail broke loose in a gale of wind, and the mass of canvas, flapping with violence, daunted the topsail yardmen, who feared they would be knocked off the yard, on which they hesitated to venture, till the Captain reached them from the deck, and “laying out,” passed a rope round the sail and secured it. A few days after I joined, when we were weighing anchor from St. Helen’s, Isle of Wight, and had got the stock of our best bower anchor awash, the forecastle man,[9] whose duty it was to shin down the cable and pass a rope through the ring on the stock, to run a hawser in order to “cat” the anchor, twice went half-way down and then climbed back, fearing to be washed off the stock, for the ship’s bow rising and falling quickly, gave but little time to pass the rope, and each time the bow fell, the stock went out of sight under water. The Captain, who was as usual dressed in loose frock coat and gold-band cap, cursing the sailor for “a lubberly coward,” slid down the chain cable with the rope in his hand on to the stock, and went with it right under water, but when he reappeared he had passed the rope end through the ring. On the 24th May 1852, H.M.S. _Queen_ was lying moored to the Dockyard wall. Now, some fifty years later, attendant tugs are in readiness for outgoing ships, and in those days Captains preferred to have the assistance of a steamer when passing through the narrow exit of the harbour. Our man, however, disdained all such aid. Due honours to the Sovereign’s birthday having been paid, at high tide we set sail, and, casting off, proceeded to Spithead, where, as was then the custom, all the heavy guns, and water for the cruise, were shipped. The _Queen_ passed so close to the northern shore that it was necessary to run in our flying-jib boom to save the windows of the “Quebec Hotel,” which has since disappeared. Most Captains would have been sufficiently preoccupied with the ship’s safety to disregard a small boy. Not so, however, was our Chief. His eye rested on me, standing with hands in both pockets. “What are you doing, sir, with hands in pockets? Aft here, sail-maker’s mate, with needle and tar.” A big hairy seaman came aft, with his needle and tar bucket. “Sew this young gentleman’s hands up in his pockets.” I was seized, but as the first stitch was put in the Captain said, “Not this time, but if I see your hands there again, there they’ll be for a week.” Ten days later, when we were lying inside Plymouth Breakwater, I was ordered to the Captain’s cabin. He was writing when the Marine sentry ushered me in, and did not look up. Presently he glanced at me, and said, “Youngster, your uncle, Captain Michell, writes asking me to see after you,” and then went on writing. I stood silent, respectful, cap in hand, till raising his head he shouted, “Well, get out of the cabin.” Orders were issued to “pay down” the ship’s company, but they had served long enough with their Chief, and the whole crew of Bluejackets, about 770, the 200 Marines standing aloof, came aft in a body, and demanded to be “paid off.” When asked for their reasons, they said anything but what they meant, but gained their point, and were by orders of the Admiralty “paid off” on the 2nd July. When nearly all the men had landed, the Captain “called” his gig, and ordered the coxswain to pull for Mutton Cove. Robert Cowling, his coxswain, when the boat was opposite to Drake’s Island, said, “Beg your pardon, your honour, but might I be allowed to land you at Mount Wise?”[10] The Captain growled, “Mutton Cove.” After another quarter-mile, Cowling began again: “Your honour, might we land you this last time at Mount Wise? There are a good many waiting for you at the Cove ----” “Curse you, do you hear me?” And the boat went on. There was a large crowd of men just paid off, of wives lawful as well as temporary, whose demeanour and language indicated their hostile intentions. Undaunted, the Captain shouted, as he jumped on to the slimy stone step, “Put the women back, and I’ll fight the d----d lot of you, one after the other.” Then the Bluejackets, who had been waiting to throw him into the water, ran at him in a body, and raising him shoulder high, carried him, the centre of a cheering mob, to his hotel. The pennant having been hauled down on the 2nd July, was rehoisted next day by my mother’s elder brother, Captain Frederick Michell, a man differing in all characteristics from his predecessor, except that each was courageous, had a strong sense of duty as understood, and possessed a consummate knowledge of seamanship. My uncle, born A.D. 1788, was in his sixty-fourth year, of middle height, and slight in figure. A courteous, mild manner hid great determination and force of character. In his earlier service he had repeatedly shown brilliant dash, and had been awarded by the Patriotic Fund a Sword of Honour and a grant of a hundred guineas, for gallantry in a boat attack, when he was wounded; and was warmly commended in despatches for the remarkable determination he had shown in the attack on Algiers in 1816. When re-employed in 1852 he had been living at Totnes, Devon, for many years, his last command having been H.M.S. _Inconstant_, paid off in 1843. His influence in the little borough where he lived in an unostentatious manner, befitting his means, was unbounded. He paid his household bills weekly, never owed a penny, was universally respected, and had been twice Mayor. A vacancy for the Parliamentary representation, impending for some time, occurred within a few weeks of Michell’s re-employment. Every voter but the Captain knew, and had told the election agents who solicited the electors, mostly shopkeepers, for their votes and interest, that they “would follow the Captain.” On the morning of the polling-day, Captain Michell called on the Port Admiral and asked for a day’s leave to record his vote. The Admiral said somewhat shortly, “I do not like officers asking for leave often; pray when did you have leave last?” “Well, sir, Lord Collingwood gave me six weeks’ leave in 1806.” This settled the question. My uncle went to Totnes, plumped against the Government candidate, and then returned to his ship. The bulk of the electors had waited for him, and the Government candidate was badly defeated. Within a few days Captain Michell received an indignant letter from a Secretary in Whitehall to the effect, “My Lords were astonished at his ingratitude.” My uncle, the most simple-minded of men, was painfully affected. He had imagined that he owed his appointment to his merits, and to the consideration that the troubled Political horizon necessitated the nomination of tried seamen to command. He wrote officially to the Admiralty, stating that unless the Secretary’s letter was repudiated, he must resign, and ask for a Court of Inquiry. In replying, “My Lords much regretted the entirely unauthorised and improper letter,” etc. Captain Michell had the reputation of being strict and autocratic with relatives, and my messmates in the gunroom concurred in advising me to ask for a transfer to another ship, so I asked to be sent to H.M.S. _Spartan_, then in the Sound; but another cadet was selected. Later, when two cadets were required for H.M.S. _Melampus_, bound for the Cape of Good Hope, I volunteered; but two boys junior to me were chosen. If I had gone to the Cape, I should have missed the Crimea. My uncle asked me why I had volunteered, and I said frankly mainly to get away from him. When Michell took command, the crew consisted of a draft of Seamen-gunners and 200 Marines, and his task was to train the large numbers of West Country lads who made up the balance of 970, all told. Very patient, methodical, and precise in all his ways, he always put back every serious case, which might take a prisoner to the gratings,[11] for twenty-four hours’ consideration. Some weeks after he joined, overhearing me speak of the third cutter as “My boat,” he called me up and rebuked me, saying, “You mean, sir, Her Majesty’s boat you have the honour to command.” The Commander of the ship was very different in disposition, manners, and temperament. A Scotchman, with a high sense of duty, he was much feared by those inclined to indulge in alcohol. Drinking to excess was common, and the Midshipmen sent below in the middle watch to mix the tumbler of spirits and water (gin being then the favourite beverage) of the officers in charge of the watch, used to bet who would put in most spirit and least water. In my first year’s service two of our officers died from alcoholism. Our Commander, naturally of a choleric though kindly disposition, was severely tried by some of the older officers in the gunroom, two of whom he often “Proved,” when they returned on board from shore leave. He occasionally lost his temper when answered, as he was on many occasions by a hard-drinking officer. One day giving an answer which was deemed to be unsatisfactory, he was greeted by an outburst of passion. “I’ll bring your nose to the grindstone; I’ll reduce you to a gooseberry.” My messmate calmly replied, in the slow, solemn manner of a man who is conscious of having drunk too much, “You cannot, sir, bring my nose to a grindstone, and to reduce me to a gooseberry is a physical impossibility.” However, sometimes the Commander won in these wordy contests. One of our officers, tried in Queenstown Harbour for drunkenness, was defended by a Cork attorney as his “next friend,” who thus attempted to trip up the Commander’s evidence:--“You say, sir, the prisoner was drunk. I suppose you have had much experience? Yes. Well, kindly define what you mean by being drunk.” “A man may be drunk--very drunk--or beastly drunk. Your client was beastly drunk.” This settled the case, and the prisoner was dismissed the Service. The First Lieutenant knew his duty and did it, but amongst men of marked characteristics attracted but little notice. Many of the younger officers were above the average in ability and efficiency, the most striking personality being a Mate, named Hugh (commonly called Billy) Burgoyne, a son of the Field Marshal whose statue stands in Waterloo Place. Mr. Burgoyne was as brave as a lion, as active as a cat, and a very Mark Tapley in difficulties. We were intimate, for I worked under his orders for some months in the maintop, of which I was Midshipman, and he Mate, and I admired him with boyish enthusiasm for his remarkable courage and endurance of pain, of which I was an eye-witness. In 1852 we were at sea in a half gale of wind increasing in force, and the ship rolling heavily, the topmen of the watch went aloft to send down the topgallant-mast. I presume that most of my readers are aware that the tall tapering poles which they see in the pictures of sailing ships were not all in one piece, but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with nautical terms I explain that the lower mast has a head which supports the top-mast, which in its turn supports the topgallant-mast, and at the head of the topgallant-mast is similarly fixed a royal-mast. When sailors speak of sending up a topgallant-mast, it means that the mast is placed alongside the top-mast, and pulled up into position by a rope which, passing over a pulley in the top of the top-mast, is then fixed in its position by a wedge-shaped piece of iron called a “Fid,” which being pushed in a hole in the top of the top-mast, receives and supports the weight of the topgallant-mast. When it is desired to “house” or send down the topgallant-mast, the man at the top-masthead pulls out the fid on which the topgallant-mast rests. The fid is composed of wood, shod with iron in parts, and for the purpose of extraction is fitted with a “grummet” of rope, or hemp handle. In ordinary weather there is not much difficulty in extracting the fid, and most Able-seamen, holding on with their legs, manage to get both hands on to the grummet and pull out the fid; on this occasion, however, continuous rain had caused the mast to swell, and the fid was embedded tightly; as the ship rolled heavily in the trough of the sea, the man at the top-masthead did not care to trust to his legs, and therefore put only one hand on the fid-grummet. We were losing time, and Burgoyne, with strong language at the man for his want of courage, ran smartly aloft, and pushing him aside, put both hands on to the fid and attempted to withdraw it; at first he failed, for the swollen wood defeated his efforts. [Illustration: MR. E. WOOD, R.N., 1852] The Marines on deck, who had the weight of the mast on their arms during the several minutes which elapsed while the Bluejacket was making half-hearted efforts with one hand, had got tired of supporting three-quarters of a ton of dead weight, and thus it happened that just as Burgoyne, getting his fingers inside the hole, had slightly moved the fid, the Marines “coming up”--that is, slacking their hold--let the topgallant-mast down on Burgoyne’s hand, which was imprisoned by the tips of the fingers. He felt his hand could not be extricated until the weight was off it; if he had screamed, the fifty men on the topgallant-fall, _i.e._ the hoisting-rope, would have looked up, and he would have remained with his hand still imprisoned. With extraordinary fortitude and self-command, Burgoyne putting his disengaged hand to his mouth, hailed the deck, making himself heard above the gale. “On deck there.” “Ay, ay.” “Sway again.” The Marines throwing all their weight on the rope, lifted the mast, Burgoyne withdrew his hand, and then becoming unconscious, we sent him down in the bight of a rope. It is curious that[12] he and two others of our Mess were lost when in command. CHAPTER III 1853–4--LIFE ON BOARD A MAN OF WAR Her Majesty Queen Victoria with a steam fleet defeats a squadron of sailing line-of-battle ships--Rough weather in the Channel--Ship nearly wrecked in Grecian Archipelago--My first command--At Sinope--Captain Michell’s seamanship--I become a Midshipman--William Peel--Cholera in the Fleet--Reconnaissance of the Crimea. The young Bluejackets of H.M.S. _Queen_, trained under zealous and efficient officers, improved rapidly in seamanship, and on the 11th August 1853, did well in a Royal Review off the Isle of Wight. Her Majesty’s ships _Prince Regent_ and _Queen_ with three steamers represented an enemy cruising off St. Helen’s, and Her Majesty the Queen, in the _Victoria and Albert_, led nineteen men-of-war steamers to attack us. The British fleet advanced in a crescent formation and nearly surrounded their opponents, the Commanders of which, after expending a quantity of blank ammunition, struck their colours in obedience to a signal from the Senior officer, when Her Majesty going on board the tender _Fairy_ passed round the captured vessels. The Fleet dispersed a few days later, and our young crew was severely tested, H.M.S. _Queen_ being caught in a heavy gale, which after tossing us about under close-reefed topsails, which were on two occasions blown away, obliged us to run for shelter into Torbay. During the gale the ship’s bow and stern rose alternately high out of the water, as she pitched in a choppy sea, and a wave striking the rudder violently, made the wheel revolve with such force as to throw two of the helmsmen right over it, one being severely injured. The wheels on the upper and main deck were then double manned, but it was necessary to control the swaying tiller in the gunroom with steadying tackles, in all thirty-two men being employed for some hours in steering the ship. The temptations of Plymouth were too much for the probity of our Mess, and Wine caterers, a Clerk, and a Master’s Assistant, who misappropriated over £200. Three months later they were tried by Court Martial in the Bosphorus, and dismissed the Service, the one who was the more guilty getting six months’ imprisonment; but the money had to be repaid, and in the gunroom our bill of fare up to and including Christmas Day varied only to the extent, say Sundays salt pork and plain duff with sugar, Mondays salt beef and pease pudding, while we had to continue paying our usual Mess bills, those of a Midshipman being limited to 30s. per mensem, and a wine bill not exceeding 7s. 6d. Tourists who steam past Cape Matapan, the southern point of Greece, in a few hours, may find it difficult to realise that H.M.S. _Queen_, although an unusually good sailer, took seven days to round that promontory. We were nearly wrecked in trying to beat through the Doro Channel. The passage lies between the islands of Negropont and Andros, the most northerly of the Cyclades, there being about six miles from land to land. The wind was north-east, blowing freshly, and dead against us; we were, however, nearly through, but just before dark on the 9th November, when the helm was put down in our last tack, which would have taken us clear, the jib halliards carried away, and the ship missing stays, gathered stern way. We drifted so close to the rocky cliffs of Andros that one might have thrown a biscuit on shore. A staysail brought the ship’s head round in time, however, and “wearing,” we lay for the night under the lee of the island. Next day the breeze increased to a gale, and the ship was kept under reefed courses, till the mainsail splitting, was replaced by the fore staysail. On the 11th December the Captain bore up, and ran back to Milo, there to remain till the gale blew itself out. The harbour being landlocked, the sea was calm, as we duly saluted His Excellency the Governor, who came on board. Some hours later he returned to complain that one of the Midshipmen, in practising with his new pistol, had shot the Governor’s donkey. His Excellency was well satisfied with twenty dollars, which my messmate had to pay for his pistol practice. When we left Milo we had a fair wind up to Constantinople, and from the Golden Horn on to Beicos Bay, where we joined the Allied Fleet. We remained for ten days at anchor amidst lovely scenery in the Strait, which varying from half a mile to two miles, separates Europe from Asia. On the 3rd January the combined fleets weighed to proceed to Sinope, where five weeks earlier a Turkish squadron of seven frigates had been destroyed by the Russian Fleet. H.M.S. _Queen_ and two French line-of-battle ships had reached the northern end of the Strait, when our progress was arrested by signals. The greater part of the fleets had been less prompt in getting under way and making sail, and the wind veering to the N.N.W. and bringing with it a fog, the fleets anchored again in Beicos Bay, the _Queen_ remaining just inside the Bosphorus. Next morning both fleets entered the Black Sea with a southerly wind, and proceeded to Sinope, the Admiral signalling, “The ships and territories of Turkey throughout the Black Sea are to be protected, under any circumstances, from all aggression.” We reached the Bay, which is a fine natural harbour on the northern extremity of Asia Minor, on the 6th January. The town had suffered considerably from the Russian shells, two streets being entirely demolished, and amongst the wrecks of the Turkish squadron floated corpses of its indomitable crews. Three Russian men-of-war were off the port on the 4th, forty-eight hours before our arrival, and so narrowly escaped capture, or destruction. The town of Sinope, then containing about 10,000 inhabitants, is beautifully situated, but perhaps its greatest world-wide interest consists in its being the birthplace of Diogenes. The surrounding country is fertile, with many wooded valleys, which my messmates and I explored to our great pleasure on the Governor’s horses, favoured by summer-like weather, though while at sea we had suffered from the intense cold. The fleets were back again in Beicos Bay on the 22nd January, and there remained at anchor for two months. I got into trouble at the end of February, the result of obeying orders. A Greek brig drifting down the Bosphorus, flying signals of distress, grounded on the Asiatic side, and our Commander sent the launch with the stream anchor, and the cutter of which I was in charge, to warp her off shore. This was accomplished after a hard day’s work. When we were about to return, the Senior officer wanted a glass of grog, and ordered me to put him on board the brig, the grateful Captain of which proffered refreshments. I took the cutter to the gangway, where my Superior could have ascended on the battens, assisted by a man rope, but he being stout and inactive, preferred the rope ladder suspended from the stern, and ordered me to go there. In vain I urged the swirling stream might cause the cutter’s bow to be injured. He insisted on obedience, and my fears being realised, we had to go back in the launch, leaving the cutter with her bow stove in, hauled up on the beach. On returning on board I was severely reprimanded by the Commander. In my defence I submitted I was obliged to obey the order after I had pointed out its risk. He replied, “I don’t care, sir; you were in charge of the boat, so you are responsible.” Three months later I was again censured, but this time because I had tried to assert my command. We were lying at the time in Kavarna Bay, and the ship’s crew had leave to go on shore by detachments. In the evening two boats were sent to bring them on board, a cutter for the officers, and a barge for the Bluejackets. A Lieutenant ordered me to take into the cutter some of the men. I paid for extra painting of the boat, and wanting to keep her neat and clean, begged that the men might go off in the barge, but was told peremptorily to obey orders. While we were pulling out to the ship, about two and a half miles off, some of the men became noisy, and the Lieutenant ordered me to keep them quiet. I replied to the effect it was useless to talk to drunken men, and when we got on board was reported for hesitating to obey orders. The Commander lectured me severely, predicting I should come to the gallows; nevertheless, I suppose he was generally satisfied with me, for a few days before we left the Bosphorus again, I got, at the age of sixteen, my first independent command. Some links in an adjunct to our chain cable, technically called a “Blake stopper,” had become strained, and I was ordered to take it to the Turkish dockyard at Constantinople, to have them put into a furnace and straightened. This involved absence from the ship for a couple of days, and with the difficulties of language required some tact, but was successfully carried out. I was possibly chosen for this outing because, before we left England, I had already had some practice in handling a boat, and in the winter of 1852–53 Captain Michell commended me warmly, for him a very unusual act. His daughter, who was staying with him on board the _Queen_, then lying just inside the breakwater which shelters Plymouth Sound, was expecting her son, eight years old, now a distinguished Judge, Sir George Farwell, for a visit. When I left the ship for Mount Wise there was a fresh westerly wind blowing, which before we started to return had increased considerably, and no shore boat ventured to put out to the Sound. We pulled the cutter out to Redding Point, under shelter of Mount Edgcumbe, and then, having close-reefed the sail, stood out till we were under lee of the ship, which was lying head to wind, and got the future Judge up the stern ladder in safety. Indeed, I became so fond of being away in boats, and thus escaping lessons under the Naval Instructor, that he felt bound, as I see by my letters, to get me relieved for a short time, to ensure my passing the two-yearly examination, which I did in due course two years after entering the Service, and thus was enabled to have my jacket adorned with the Midshipman’s white patch. The Allied fleets weighed anchor again on the 24th March to enter the Black Sea, and, as a fleet, there remained for over two years. The start was unfortunate. One of the French men-of-war ran aground. The English flagship collided with two vessels in succession, and this enabled our Captain to prove his seamanship and local knowledge. Fifteen years earlier he had commanded a corvette, and later a frigate, which were often in the Bosphorus, and seeing the misfortunes around him decided to sail up, although the wind was not favourable. He ordered the towing hawser to be let go, and hailing H.M.S. _Furious_, desired the Captain to offer help to the Admiral. We made all plain sail: the Captain knew the soundings and currents thoroughly, and stood so close in to the shore at Therapia, before he put the ship about, as to startle his crew. The Admiral, generous in his appreciation of the seamanship shown, signalled “Well done, _Queen_,” a signal repeated at least twice within the next few months. No other line-of-battle ship went up the Bosphorus that day under sail, and the _Queen_ had to make five tacks ere she entered the Euxine. Our Captain’s nerve was as good at sixty-five as it was at Algiers in 1816. We cruised for some days, and then anchored in the Bay opposite to the little town of Baljic, about twenty-five miles north of Varna. Our life on board ship was enlivened by frequent competitions in the Fleet; H.M.S. _Queen_, called a Symondsite, built after the design of Sir William Symonds, was only 247 feet in length, with 50 feet beam. She was the fastest sailer of all the line-of-battle ships, when beating to windward, and was excelled only by H.M.S. _Agamemnon_, when sailing with the wind abaft the beam. The men were always eager and excited when the signal having been made, “chase to windward,” our ship crossed the bows of all other line-of-battle ships. As every foot of canvas the spars and stays would support was spread, the lee guns were always run in, and the watch on deck ordered to lie down up to windward, to counteract the heeling over of the ship caused by the pressure on the sails. The varying speed of ships was found to be inconvenient later, when the Allied fleets cruised off the Crimea coast, and H.M.S. _Queen_ was often detached with the fastest French line-of-battle ship, _Marengo_, placed temporarily under Captain Michell’s command. We heard on the 9th April that war was declared, but the French Admiral for some reason did not get the official news for a week later, when three cheers given for war by the English Fleet were repeated by the Allies in unison. On the 17th April we sailed for Odessa, and anchored four miles off the city on the 21st. Next morning the steamers circling round in
missions was almost as familiar in that humble Scottish home as the history of the Apostle Paul. A specially powerful influence in moving Livingstone to his life-decision was the appeal of Charles Gutzlaff for medical missionaries for China. Livingstone was a born naturalist; and despite his father’s old-fashioned prejudices, he made himself a scientist at a very early age, searching old quarries for the shells in the carboniferous limestone, “scouring Clyde-side for simples,” and arranging the flora of the district in botanical order. These expeditions were often very prolonged, and involved the endurance of fatigue and hunger; but the lad could not be discouraged. Unconsciously he was bracing himself physically for the toils and tasks of after years. There is a fine story about the revenge he took upon his native African escort, on one occasion, who had been misguided enough to talk disrespectfully about his slim figure and shortness of stature. Thereupon, Livingstone took them along for two or three days at the top of their speed till they cried out for mercy! He had not scoured Clyde-side for simples for nothing. His fearlessness is well illustrated in his daring and reckless exploit of climbing the ruins of Bothwell Castle, so that he might carve his name higher than any other boy had carved his. There, too, was the childlike ambition, which remained with him to the end, to do something which nobody else could surpass. “No one,” he wrote at the very end of his life, on his last expedition, “will cut me out after this exploration is accomplished.” Then he adds finely, “and may the good Lord of all help me to show myself one of his stout-hearted servants, an honour to my children, and perhaps to my country and race.” The story of Livingstone is told there: it is the story of one of the good Lord’s stout-hearted servants. All the drudgery and hardship of his lot went to make him the man he was. The days of his boyhood were “the good old days”--the days when children of ten years old were sent to work in the factories; and David went with the rest. No eight hours’ day his! No humane legislature thought it wise and well to forbid or curtail child labour. From six o’clock in the morning till eight o’clock at night he worked as a piecer; and all the world knows how he used to place the book he was studying on a portion of the spinning-jenny, and snatch a sentence or two as he passed at his work. He tells us he thus kept “a pretty constant study, undisturbed by the roar of machinery,” and that this habit [Illustration: THE CLYDE AND RUINS OF THE OLD MILL AT BLANTYRE.] [Illustration: WHERE LIVINGSTONE LIVED AT ONGAR.] of concentration stood him in good stead in after years when he wanted to read and write even “amidst the dancing and song of savages.” As if this were not enough, after a fourteen hours’ day in the factory he would go off to a night-school provided by the employers; and then home to work at his Latin till “mother put out the candle.” It is well for ten-year-old humanity when it has a mother to put out the candle, or Mother Nature might have put out another candle, and where would Africa have been then? Nine years of such severe and determined work as this brought him to University age; and as Glasgow University was hard by, and as he was promoted to be a spinner by this time and able to earn enough in the summer to keep him during the other six months, he entered as a student for Greek and medicine, and seems to have successfully schemed to attend some Divinity lectures even in the summer months. The Scotch Universities are the paradise of poor and struggling students who have more brains and character than bawbees: but the education was not free in those days. The money for fees had to be pinched and scraped; but it was found somehow, and in the early winter of 1836, David and his father walked to the city from Blantyre and trudged the streets of Glasgow all day, with the snow upon the ground, till at last they found a room in “Rotten Row” that could be had for two shillings a week. Lodged thus as cheaply as could be managed, he applied himself with all his unfailing diligence and zest to learn Greek and medicine, as well as to such theological studies as could be undertaken under the leadership of the Rev. Dr. Wardlaw--one of Glasgow’s most famous divines--who trained men for the Congregational ministry, and for whom Livingstone had a great admiration. During his second session at Glasgow (1837-8) David Livingstone came to the most fateful decision of his life. He decided to offer himself to one of the Missionary Societies for foreign service. He chose the London Missionary Society because of his sympathy with the catholicity of its basis. It existed “to send neither Episcopacy, nor Presbyterianism, nor Independency to the heathen, but the Gospel of Christ.” “This,” said Livingstone “exactly agreed with my ideas.” He was a member of a Congregational church, and the London Missionary Society has always been in the main supported by these churches. But the Society was founded by Evangelical churchmen and prominent Presbyterians, as well as by Congregationalists, and nothing appealed more to Livingstone than this union of Christian people in the service of an un-Christian world. In due course the acceptance of his offer arrived, and in the early autumn of 1838 he travelled to London, where he was to appear before the Mission Board at 57 Aldersgate Street. One can imagine that, apart altogether from the momentous character of his visit, and the anxiety he must have felt as to his acceptance by the Directors, this first visit to London must have been a most impressive one to the young Scotsman. He heard many distinguished preachers, and visited the famous sites of London. Among other places, he went with a companion to Westminster Abbey. It is a thrilling thought, as Mr. Thomas Hughes reminds us, that he was never known to enter that Abbey again until his remains were borne thither amid the lamentations of the whole civilised world, and all the honours that the living can ever pay to the dead. The examination by the Directors was satisfactory; and according to the custom of the time Livingstone was committed for a short period of probation to the tutorship of the Rev. Richard Cecil, the minister of the little town of Chipping Ongar in Essex. There he was expected to give proof of his preaching ministry, with what result is generally known. He was sent one Sunday evening to preach in the village of Stanford Rivers, where the tradition of Livingstone’s first effort at preaching is still cherished. The raw, somewhat heavy-looking Scotch youth, to whom public speech was always a difficulty, gave out his text “very deliberately.” That was all the congregation got. The sermon composed on the text had fled, owing to the nervous embarrassment produced by a handful of people in a village chapel. “Friends,” said the youth, “I have forgotten all I had to say”--“and hurrying out of the pulpit he left the chapel.” I have no doubt that “hurrying” is the right word. Never was failure more absolute. It is hardly to be wondered at that the Rev. Richard Cecil reported to the Directors his fears that Livingstone had mistaken his vocation. It was a risk to send someone to preach to the heathen who might possibly forget what he had come to say when he arrived. Moreover, criticism was made of his extreme slowness and hesitancy in prayer. Yet the man who was nearly rejected by the Society on this account, died on his knees in the heart of Africa, while all the world was awed by the thought that David Livingstone passed away in the act of prayer. As it was his probation was extended, and at the end of another two months he was finally accepted, and went up to London to continue his medical studies in the London Hospitals. One of the most striking things ever written about him was by the celebrated Dr. Isaac Taylor, of Ongar. “Now after nearly forty years,” he writes, “I remember his step, the characteristic forward tread, firm, simple, resolute, neither fast nor slow, no hurry and no dawdle, but which evidently meant--getting there!” In November, 1840, he was able to return to Glasgow, and qualify as a Licentiate of the Faculty of Physicians and Surgeons; and a few days later he said goodbye to the old folks at home, one of whom--his father--he was never to see on earth again. On November 20th he was ordained at Albion Chapel, London, and three weeks later he sailed on the “George” to Algoa Bay in South Africa. One chapter in his memorable life was now definitely closed. Among the memories in it there are few if any that he cherished more than that of his old Sunday School teacher, David Hogg, who sent for him as he lay dying and said, “Now lad, make religion the every-day business of your life, and not a thing of fits and starts, for if you do, temptation and other things will get the better of you.” It is hardly too much to say that the old man’s death-bed counsel became the watchword of his life. CHAPTER II A voyage of five months saw Livingstone at Algoa Bay, preparing for his first journey into the interior of Africa, the grave of so many reputations, but the land of his renown. Until within a short time of his departure from London he had hoped and intended to go to China as a medical missionary. But the “Opium War” was still in progress; and for the time being China was impossible. Moreover, Livingstone was brought under the influence of one of the greatest personalities in modern missionary enterprise. Robert Moffat was home on furlough, and his wonderful story no less than his striking presence, exerted their spell over the young Scot and changed the goal of his ambition. Dr. Moffat was wont to describe the numberless African villages stretching away to the north where no missionary had yet penetrated; and his appeal found a ready response in Livingstone’s heart. None of us who have heard the old man eloquent, and on whose memories the stately striking figure, with the flowing beard, and the iron-grey tousled hair, made an indelible impression, will wonder that any young man’s imagination should be kindled by his address, or should discover in the mysterious depths of the vast African continent the field for his life work. It was to Dr. Moffat’s station at Kuruman that David Livingstone took his first journey. The distance was seven hundred miles; and he immediately surrendered to the interest and delight of travel by ox waggon, the freedom of the open air life, the variety of the scenery and sport, and the attractiveness of the natives, who engaged his sympathy from the first. It was now that his hardy training in Scotland stood him in good stead. He knew how to put up with inconveniences cheerfully, and face difficulties with resolution, while his resourcefulness was as inexhaustible as his kindliness. That “characteristic forward tread” of which Isaac Taylor had spoken which “meant getting there” was put to the proof and not found wanting. To him there was a way out of every situation, however critical; and the “bold free course” which he took with the natives, together with his medical skill and unwearying goodness, won their loyalty. They recognised him as a great chief, and his whole career is eloquent of the extraordinary devotion which he inspired in them. At the end of May, 1841, he was at Kuruman, with instructions from the Directors of the Society to turn his attention to the North--instructions that absolutely coincided with his own aspiration. It is notable that he formed the very highest opinion of the value of Christian missions from the results that he saw. Let it be remembered that he was always a slow, cautious Scot in all his judgments, with a severely truthful and scientific mind, and his testimony becomes the more valuable. “Everything I witnessed surpassed my hopes,” he writes home; “if this is a fair sample the statements of the missionaries as to their success are far within the mark.” He is full of the praises of the Christian Hottentots, who are “far superior in attainments to what I had expected;” their worship reminded him of the old covenanters. It was thus, then, that with his zeal for his mission of evangelism greatly stimulated, he started north to the country of the Bakwains. A short circuit sufficed to reveal the problem, and he returned to Kuruman to think out the best plan of campaign. The first step was a characteristic one. It was to isolate himself absolutely from all European society and live among the natives, so as to learn their language and study their habits and their laws. For six months he rigorously pursued his plan, and found his reward in the new appreciation he gained of the native character and mode of thinking, and the extent to which he conquered their confidences. So far advanced had he become in the knowledge of their language that he was able to enjoy a laugh at himself for “turning poet.” One can believe that to Livingstone this was no easy work; but he succeeded in making Sechuana translations of several hymns which were afterwards adopted and printed by the French missionaries. “If they had been bad,” he says in his naïve way, “I don’t see that they can have had any motive for using them.” He was waiting now for the final decision of the directors authorising the advance into the unoccupied district of the north. The decision was long in coming. We must recognise that such a resolution was not an easy one for those who carried all the responsibilities at home. Even their most trusted advisers on the actual field were not agreed. Dr. Philip, the special representative of the Society at the Cape, and a man of great personal power and sagacity, shook his head over Livingstone’s impetuosity and talked about the dangers. “If we wait till there is no danger,” said Livingstone, “we shall never go at all.” It was quite true; but there were big problems of policy to be decided. Many held by the watchword “concentration,” which is always plausible, and often conclusive. Settlements for educational and industrial developments had proved their value. On the other hand Livingstone had unanswerable logic on his side when he argued that the missionaries in the South had too scanty a population and that the call to possess the North was urgent, for the traders and the slavers were pushing out there, and the gospel of humanity was imperatively needed. There was long delay, but in the meantime Livingstone was making proof of his ministry. His medical knowledge helped to spread his fame. He fought the rainmakers at their own arts with the scientific weapon of irrigation and won his battle. He made friends with the Bechuana Chief, Sechele, one of the most intelligent and interesting of the many great natives who surrendered to the charm of Livingstone. Sechele was deeply impressed by the missionary’s message, but profoundly troubled in spirit. He said, “You startle me--these words make all my bones to shake--I have no more strength in me. But my forefathers were living at the same time yours were, and how is it that they did not send them word about these terrible things sooner. They all passed away into darkness without knowing whither they were going.” When Livingstone tried to explain to him the gradual spread of the Gospel knowledge, the chief refused to believe that the whole earth could be visited. There was a barrier at his very door--the Kalahari desert. Nobody could cross it. Even those who knew the country would perish, and no missionary would have a chance. As for his own people there was no difficulty in converting them, always assuming that Livingstone would go to work in the right way. “Do you imagine these people will ever believe by your merely talking to them? I can make them do nothing except by thrashing them, and if you like I will call my head-men and with our litupa (whips of rhinoceros hide) we will soon make them all believe together.” It must be confessed, however, that Sechele’s state-church principles did not commend themselves to the mind of an ardent voluntaryist like Livingstone. “In our relations with the people,” he writes, “we were simply strangers exercising no authority or control whatever. Our influence depended entirely on persuasion; and having taught them by kind conversation as well as by public instruction, I expected them to do what their own sense of right and wrong dictated.” He then sets on record “five instances in which by our influence on public opinion war was prevented,” and pays a high tribute to the intelligence of the natives who in many respects excel “our own uneducated peasantry.” This attitude of appreciation and respectful sympathy was the secret of Livingstone’s unparalleled influence over the African tribes. It was on a return from a visit to Sechele in June, 1843, that Livingstone heard the good news of the formal sanction of the forward movement. He hailed the decision, as he said, “with inexpressible delight”; and in a fine letter written to Mr. Cecil declared his fixed resolve to give less attention to the art of physical healing and more to spiritual amelioration. He has no ambition to be “a very good doctor but a useless drone of a missionary.” He feels that to carry out this purpose will involve some self-denial, but he will make the sacrifice cheerfully. As for the charge of ambition, “I really am ambitious to preach beyond other men’s lines.... I am only determined to go on and do all I can, while able, for the poor degraded people of the north.” In less than two months he was ready for the new move. The first journey was two hundred miles to the north-east, to Mabotsa, which he had previously noted as suitable for a station. Here he built a house with his own hands, and settled down for three years’ work among the Bakatlas. During this period two events occurred that were especially notable. The first went far towards ending his career. The facts are well-known from Livingstone’s own graphic but simple description. He had gone with the Bakatlas to hunt some lions which had committed serious depredations in the village. The lions were encircled by the natives but broke through the line and escaped. As Livingstone was returning, however, he saw one of the beasts on a small hill, and fired into him at about thirty yards’ distance. Loading again, he heard a shout, and “looking half-round saw the lion just in the act of springing upon me.” The lion seized him by the shoulder and “growling horribly close to my ear, he shook me as a terrier dog does a rat.” We now see the advantage of a scientific education. Livingstone was able to analyse his own feelings and emotions during the process of being gnawed by a lion. He observed that “the shock produced a stupor, a sort of dreaminess”; there was “no sense of pain, nor feeling of terror.” He compares it to the influence of chloroform; and argues that “this peculiar state is probably produced in all animals killed by the carnivora, and if so is a merciful provision by our benevolent Creator for lessening the pain of death.” In this judgment he anticipated some [Illustration: LIVINGSTONE ATTACKED BY A LION.] weighty modern conclusions by noted physiologists. So interesting does Livingstone find these observations, that it seems as if he must have been almost disappointed when the lion released him and turned his attention to others less well equipped for scientific investigation. On the whole Livingstone escaped marvellously well, but the bone was crunched into splinters, and there were eleven teeth wounds on the upper part of his arm. The arm indeed was never really well again. It will be remembered that it was by the false joint in this limb that the remains of Livingstone were identified on their arrival in England. It will also be remembered that, as has been so well said, “for thirty years afterwards all his labours and adventures, entailing such exertion and fatigue, were undertaken with a limb so maimed that it was painful for him to raise a fowling-piece, or in fact to place the left arm in any position above the level of the shoulder.” This was a bad business. But Providence has a way of making up to good men for afflictions of this kind; and Livingstone’s compensation came to him in the following year, when he had something to face that demanded more daring than a mere every-day encounter with lions. He had been a bachelor in Africa for four years, and he had resolved to try his fortune with Mary Moffat, Dr. Moffat’s eldest daughter. The proposal was made “beneath one of the fruit trees” at Kuruman in 1844. He got the answer he desired and deserved, and Mary Moffat took him with all his erratic ways, and became his devoted wife. “She was always the best spoke in the wheel at home,” he writes; “and when I took her with me on two occasions to lake Ngami, and far beyond, she endured more than some who have written large books of travels.” In course of time three sons and a daughter came to “cheer their solitude,” and increase their responsibilities. But from the first they set themselves to fulfil what Livingstone called the ideal missionary life, “the husband a jack-of-all-trades, and the wife a maid-of-all-work.” The catalogue of necessary accomplishments sounds somewhat embarrassing, and one realises that the ordinary college training is in many respects incomplete. Here it is, as Livingstone expresses it--“Building, gardening, cobbling, doctoring, tinkering, carpentering, gun-mending, farriering, waggon-mending, preaching, schooling, lecturing on physics, occupying a chair in divinity, and helping my wife to make soap, candles, and clothes.” It was certainly a busy and catholic career. He was carrying the whole of his world upon his own broad shoulders, and was guide, philosopher, and friend to a vast district. He had his enemies, too, as those who champion the rights of the poor and helpless are sure to have. To the north were to be found settlements of unscrupulous and marauding Boers, who held by all the unenlightened views of the relation of the white races to the black which were only recently extinct in England where the financial interest in slavery died hard in 1833. These Boer marauders lived largely on slave-labour and on pillage; and Livingstone was brought into open conflict with them. On one side they may be said to have barred his advance. The tribes he served and loved lived under the shadow of a Boer invasion. The time was to come when the cloud would burst over Sechele and his unoffending people, when his wives would be slain and his children carried away into slavery; when many of the bravest of his people would be massacred, and Livingstone’s house sacked and gutted in his absence. This complicity of the northern Boers in those outrages on native tribes which history most frequently associates with the Portuguese, earned Livingstone’s stern indignation and detestation; though he never did the Boers of South Africa the injustice of confounding the lawless raiders with the main body of settlers, of whom he wrote “the Boers generally... are a sober, industrious, and most hospitable body of peasantry.” He had, however, already begun to have glimpses of what his life-witness was to be. He saw that the curse of Africa lay not only in the eternal conflicts of tribe with tribe. That form of misery was original to the continent and its savage inhabitants. But a new curse had fallen upon the unhappy people by the intrusion of those who united with a higher material civilisation a more developed and refined form of cruelty. The diabolical cunning and callousness that, under the guise of trading, would gain the confidence of a peaceful tribe, only at last to rise up some fatal night, murder the old, enslave the young, burn the huts, and march the chained gang hundreds of miles to the sea, have made the records of African Slavery the most awful reading in human history. Imagination carries the story one step further. We hardly need the genius of a Turner to suggest to us the horror of a slave-ship under the torrid tropical skies, with its dead and dying human freight. When the slave-trade is realised in all its accumulated horrors, it is easy to understand how, to a man of Livingstone’s noble Christian sensibility, the manifest duty of the Church of Christ was to engage in a war-to-the-death struggle against this darkest of all inhumanities. He was planning his campaign during the years when he passed with his wife and children from one settlement to another. Three houses he built with his own hands, and made some progress in the cultivation of gardens round them. The first was at Mabotsa. It was the home to which he brought his young bride and to leave it went to his heart. His going was the result of the attitude adopted towards him by a brother missionary. Sooner than cause scandal among the tribe he resolved to give everything up and go elsewhere. “Paradise will make amends for all our privations and sorrows here,” he says simply. It is something to know that the missionary who did him this injustice lived “to manifest a very different spirit.” Livingstone next cast in his lot with Sechele and his people, and built his second house at Chonuane, some forty miles from Mabotsa. It was hard work, and it made a big drain on his very small income, but it was not his way to complain. The hardship fell more severely on his wife and infant children, and he felt the deprivations and inconveniences most for them. The house was finished in course of time, and a school was erected too, where the children were instructed, and services held. But nature was against a long settlement at Chonuane. A period of prolonged drought set in. Supplies were exhausted. The people had to go further afield, and the position became untenable. There was nothing for it but for the Livingstones to go too. All the labour of rebuilding had to be undertaken again, this time at Kolobeng, another forty miles on. Providence was indeed to Livingstone “like as an eagle stirring up the nest.” Such of the tribe as were left went with him and a new village was constructed. Livingstone and his family lived for a year in “a mere hut.” In 1848 the new house was actually built, despite some serious personal accidents of which he made light in his usual way. “What a mercy to be in a house again!” he writes home; “a year in a little hut through which the wind blew our candles into glorious icicles (as a poet would say) by night, and in which crowds of flies continually settled on the eyes of our poor little brats by day, makes us value our present castle. Oh Janet, know thou, if thou art given to building castles in the air, that that is easy work compared to erecting cottages on the ground!” Such was the building of his third house, the one that was afterwards sacked by the Boers. Then he built no more houses. Indeed, he never had a home of his own in Africa afterwards. The dark problem of Central Africa had him in its grip. He sent his wife and children home to England; and he himself became like that Son of Man whose example he followed so nearly, one “who had not where to lay his head.” Before that time came, however, he had laid the foundations of his fame as an explorer by crossing the Kalahari Desert, and discovering Lake Ngami. The circumstances that gave rise to this journey are easily detailed. The drought continued at Kolobeng as pitilessly as at Chonuane. Only the power of Livingstone’s personality sufficed to retain the faith and loyalty of the tribes. He writes that they were always treated with “respectful kindness” and never had an enemy among the natives. His enemies were among the “dirty whites,” who knew that he was the most dangerous obstacle to the slave-raids, and who objected to his policy of training Christian native teachers to be evangelists among their own kinsfolk. But though the tribes remained loyal, the fact remained that Livingstone had led a migration which had not resulted in a permanent settlement; neither could he command the rain as their own rainmakers professed to be able to do. The heathen superstition that hostile doctors had put their country under an evil charm so that no rain should fall on it, prevailed even against their faith in the missionary. Sechele’s more enlightened mind found it difficult to understand why Livingstone’s God did not answer the prayer for rain. Yet the work went forward at Kolobeng. The chief Sechele, after long hesitation on Livingstone’s part, was baptised and entered into communion with the little church. Trouble followed when he “went home, gave each of his superfluous wives new clothing, and all his own goods, which they had been accustomed to keep in their huts for him, and sent them to their parents with an intimation that he had no fault to find with them, but that in parting with them he wished to follow the will of God.” It was his solution of a social problem that can never be satisfactorily solved, and it was both courageous and generous, but the result was seen in the fiercer resentment of the relatives of the women; and while little or none of this fell upon Livingstone, it served seriously to prejudice the religion which was responsible for Sechele’s action. On every count, it was desirable to find the new and permanent station, where that central training-ground for native missionaries could be established which Livingstone had constantly in view, and where the water supply would be less likely to fail. But where to go? In the south, the field was well supplied with missionaries. To the east were the unfriendly Dutch, bent on making mischief. To the north lay the Kalahari desert, which Sechele had pronounced to be an impassable barrier to the progress of Christianity. “It is utterly impossible even to us black men,” he said. But the word “impossible” was not in Livingstone’s dictionary. If my readers will take the trouble to look at an old map of South Africa they will find the whole vast track of the west which lies to the north of the Orange River, and includes Bechuana Land and Damara Land, described as desert, and the Kalahari Desert in the eastern portion of it. Kolobeng lay at the extreme west of what we know to-day as the Transvaal, some two hundred and fifty miles from Pretoria, and was more than four thousand feet above sea level, near the sources of the Limpopo River, which flows north and east, until it finally joins the ocean at Delagoa Bay. A straight line to Lake Ngami would have taken the travellers in a north-westerly direction a distance of little more than three hundred miles. But it is doubtful whether they could have survived such a journey across an untrodden route, even if they had known accurately where the great lake lay. They were certainly well inspired to go due north to the Zouga River, and then follow it westward to the lake, though this route must have added two hundred miles to their journey. Three other Europeans, Colonel Steele, Mr. Murray, and Mr. Oswell--the latter one of Livingstone’s life-long friends and a mighty African hunter, joined the expedition, which started on June 1st, 1849, and reached the lake on August 1st. Livingstone has given us a most graphic and detailed description of the desert with its sandy soil, its dry beds of ancient rivers, its trackless plains, its prairie grass, its patches of bushes, and the singular products of its soil with roots like large turnips that hold fluid beneath the soil, and above all the desert water-melons on which the Bushmen as well as the elephants and antelopes, and even lions and hyænas subsist. The Bushmen he found a thin, wiry, merry race capable of great endurance, as indeed the denizens of the desert must be. They existed under conditions that inspired the Bechuana with terror, for to add to the other dangers the desert was at times infested with serpents. It was a hazardous enterprise to which Livingstone and his fellow travellers were committed, and, humanly speaking, its success depended wholly on the discovery of water at periodical intervals. The “caravan” was a considerable one. Eighty cattle and twenty horses were not deemed too many for the waggons and for riding; these had to be watered, and the twenty men besides. Progress was necessarily slow. None could face the burning heat of the mid-day hours. They had to move forward in the mornings and the evenings. The waggon-wheels sank deep into the soft, hot sand; and the poor oxen dragging them laboriously forward were, at a critical time, nearly four days without water, “and their masters scarcely better off.” Aided, however, by the experience and keen instinct of the natives, they found wells in unsuspected places, and eventually made the banks of the Zouga River. After that, progress was easy. Leaving the waggons and oxen, they took to canoes, or wended their way along the riverbanks, until, on the morning of August 1st, they found themselves gazing on the waters of Lake Ngami, the first white people to see it so far as they knew. It had been one of the principal arguments with Livingstone for the journey that he would meet the famous chief Sebituane, who had saved the life of Sechele in his infancy, and who was renowned as a warrior and as a powerful and intelligent ruler. It meant another two hundred miles of travel to the north, and the jealousies of the chiefs, and their real or assumed fears for Livingstone’s safety, prevented the realisation of his hopes on this journey. There was nothing for it but to go back to Kolobeng, where the drought persisted as absolute as ever. Livingstone’s congregation and Mrs. Livingstone’s school had disappeared in search of better watered lands. It was clear that for Livingstone there was here “no abiding city.” He resolved to transport his wife and three children to the north. He made more of an eastward circuit this time, and Sechele accompanied them to the fords of the Zouga. Mrs. Livingstone was the first white lady to see Lake Ngami; but the purposed visit to Sebituane had again to be deferred. Livingstone’s aid was invoked for a fever-stricken party of Englishmen who were hunting ivory. One was already dead, but the others recovered under his treatment. His own children, however, sickened; and the party precipitately retired to “the pure air of the desert,” and so home to Kolobeng where another child was born to them, only to be carried away by an epidemic. “Hers is the first grave in all that country,” writes the bereaved father, “marked as the resting-place of one of whom it is believed and confessed that she shall live again.” After a visit to Kuruman to rest and recruit, they were ready in April, 1851, for a third attempt to reach Sebituane. Mr. Oswell, the most valuable of comrades, was again with them. The journey was successful, but it came dangerously near to being disastrous to the whole family. This crisis occurred on the far side of the Zouga river, as they were travelling northward across absolute desert. The Bushman guide lost his way, and the supply of water in the waggons had been wasted by
When they in prison three days time had staid, He sent for them and this proposal made, They to their father should the corn convey, And Simeon should with him a prisoner stay; Until they brought their youngest brother there, Which should to him their innocence declare. This they agreed to, and were sent away, Whilst Simeon did behind in prison stay. BENJAMIN BROUGHT TO JOSEPH. Old Jacob's sons came back to him, report, How they were us'd at the Egyptian court: Taken for spies, and Simeon left behind, Till Benjamin shall make the man more kind. This news old Jacob griev'd unto the heart, Who by no means with Benjamin would part; But when the want of corn did pinch them sore, And they were urg'd to go again for more; They told their father they were fully bent, To go no more except their brother went. Then take your brother and arise and go, Said good old Jacob, and the man will show You favour, that you may all safe return, And I no more my children's loss may mourn. Then taking money and rich presents too, To Joseph they their younger brother shew. Then he his steward straitway did enjoin To bring those men to his house with him to dine. When Joseph came, he kindly to them spake, When they to him did low obeysance make, He ask'd their welfare, and desir'd to tell Whether their father was alive and well. They answer'd Yea, he did in health remain, And to the ground bow'd down their heads again. [Illustration] Then Benjamin he by the hand did take, And said, Is this the youth of whom ye spake, Then God be gracious unto thee my son, To whom he said; which when as soon as done, Into his chamber strait he went to weep, For he his countenance could hardly keep. Then coming out, and sitting down to meet, He made his bretheren all sit down to eat: He sent to each a mess of what was best, But Benjamin's was larger than the rest. Then what he further did design to do, He call'd his servant, and to him did shew; Put in each sack as much corn as they'll hold, And in the mouth of each return his gold, And see that you take my silver cup, And in the sack of the youngest put it up. The steward fill'd the sack as he was bid, And in the mouth of each their money hid. Then on the morrow morning merry hearted With this their good success they all departed; But Joseph's steward quickly spoil'd their laughter, Who by his master's orders strait went after, And to the eleven brethren thus he spake, Is this the return you to my master make? Could you not be contented with the wine, But steal the Cup in which he does divine? This is unkind. And therefore I must say You've acted very foolishly to day. JOSEPH MAKES HIMSELF KNOWN TO HIS BRETHEREN. [Illustration] The steward's words put them into a fright, They wonder'd at his speech, as well they might Why does my Lord this charge against us bring; For God forbid we e'er should do this thing: The money that within our sacks we found, We brought from Canaan; then what ground Have you to think, or to suppose that we Of such a crime as this should guilty be. With whatsoever man this cup is found, Both let him die, and we'll be also bound As slaves unto my Lord. Let it so be, Reply'd the steward, we shall quickly see Whether it is so or not; then down they took[1] And when the steward he had search'd them round, Within the sack of Benjamin the cup was found. To Joseph therefore they straitway repair, To whom he said as soon as they came there, How durst you take this silver cup of mine Did you not think that I could well divine? To whom Judah said, My Lord we've nought to say But at your feet as slaves ourselves we lay. No, no, said Joseph, there's for that no ground, He is my slave with whom the cup is found. Then Judah unto Joseph drew more near, And said, O let my Lord and Master hear: If we without the lad should back return, Our father would for ever grieve and mourn, And his grey hairs with sorrows we should bring Unto the grave, if we should do this thing; For when your servants father would at home Have kept the lad, I begg'd that he might come, And said, If I return him not to thee, Then let the blame for ever lay on me. Now therefore let him back return again, And in his stead thy servant will remain, And how shall I that piercing sight endure, Which will I know my father's death procure. This speech of Judah touch'd good Joseph so, That he bid all his servants out to go. He and his brethren being all alone, He unto them himself did thus make known. I am Joseph:--Is my father alive? But to return an answer none did strive; For at his presence they were troubled all, Which made him thus unto his brethren call, I am your brother Joseph, him whom ye } To Egypt sold; but do not troubled be; } For what you did heaven did before decree. } Then he his brother Benjamin did kiss, Wept on his neck, and so did he on his, Then kist his bretheren, wept on them likewise, So that among them there were no dry eyes. [Footnote 1: Here seems a line missing.] JOSEPH SENDS FOR HIS FATHER WHO COMES TO EGYPT. [Illustration] Then Joseph to his bretheren thus did say, } Unto my father pray make haste away, } Take food and waggons here, and do not stay, } They went, and Jacob's spirits did revive, To hear his dearest Joseph was alive, It is enough, then did old Jacob cry, I'll go and see my Joseph e'er I die; And he had reason for resolving so, For God appear'd to him and bid him go. Then into Egypt Jacob went with speed, Both he, his wives, his sons, and all their seed. And being for the land of Goshen bent, Joseph himself before him did present. Great was their Joy they on that meeting shew'd, And each the others cheeks with tears bedew'd. Then Joseph did his aged father bring Into the royal presence of the King, Whom Jacob blest, and Pharaoh lik'd him well, And bid him in the land of Goshen dwell. JACOB'S DEATH AND BURIAL. [Illustration] Jacob now having finished his last stage, And come to the end of earthly pilgrimage. Was visited by his son Joseph, who Brought with him Ephraim and Manassah too. When Jacob saw them, who are these said he? The sons said Joseph, God has given me Then Jacob blest them both, and his sons did call, To shew to each what should to them befal. Then giving orders unto Joseph where He would be buried, left to him that care; Then yielded up the ghost upon his bed And to his people he was gathered. Then Joseph for his burial did provide, And with a numerous retinue did ride, Of his own children and Egyptians too, That their respect to Joseph might shew, And with a mighty mourning did inter Old Jacob in his fathers sepulchre. FINIS. THE HOLY DISCIPLE; OR, THE =History of Joseph of Arimathea.= Wherein is contained a true Account of his Birth; his Parents; his Country; his Education; his Piety; and his begging of Pontius Pilate the Body of our blessed Saviour, after his Crucifixion, which he buried in a new Sepulchre of his own. Also the Occasion of his coming to England, where he first preached the Gospel at Glastenbury, in Somersetshire, where is still growing that noted White Thorn which buds every Christmas day in the morning, blossoms at Noon, and fades at Night, on the Place where he pitched his Staff in the Ground. With a full Relation of his Death and Burial. TO WHICH IS ADED, _MEDITATIONS on the BIRTH, LIFE, DEATH, and RESURRECTION of our LORD and SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST_. [Illustration] NEWCASTLE: PRINTED IN THIS PRESENT YEAR. THE HOLY DISCIPLE; OR, THE HISTORY OF JOSEPH OF ARIMATHEA. The text of this book is simply an amplification of the title-page, which is sufficient for its purpose in this work. The legend of his planting his staff, which produced the famous Glastonbury Thorn, is very popular and widespread. The writer remembers in the winter of 1879, when living in Herefordshire, on Old Christmas Day (Twelfth Day), people coming from some distance to see one of these trees blossom at noon. Unfortunately they were disappointed. Loudon, in his "Arboretum Britannicum," V. 2, p. 833, says, "_Cratægus præcox_, the _early_ flowering, or Glastonbury, _Thorn_, comes into leaf in January or February, and sometimes even in autumn; so that occasionally, in mild seasons, it may be in flower on Christmas Day. According to Withering, writing about fifty years ago, this tree does not grow within the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, but stands in a lane beyond the churchyard, and appears to be a very old tree. An old woman of ninety never remembered it otherwise than it now appears. This tree is probably now dead; but one said to be a descendant of the tree which, according to the Romish legend, formed the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, is still existing within the precincts of the ancient abbey of Glastonbury. It is not of great age, and may probably have sprung from the root of the original tree, or from a truncheon of it; but it maintains the habit of flowering in the winter, which the legend attributes to its supposed parent. A correspondent (Mr. Callow) sent us on December 1, 1833, a specimen, gathered on that day, from the tree at Glastonbury, in full blossom, having on it also ripe fruit; observing that the tree blossoms again in the month of May following, and that it is from these later flowers that the fruit is produced. Mr. Baxter, curator of the Botanic Garden at Oxford, also sent us a specimen of the Glastonbury Thorn, gathered in that garden on Christmas Day, 1834, with fully expanded flowers and ripe fruit on the same branch. Seeds of this variety are said to produce only the common hawthorn; but we have no doubt that among a number of seedlings there would, as in similar cases, be found several plants having a tendency to the same habits as the parent. With regard to the legend, there is nothing miraculous in the circumstances of a staff, supposing it to have been of hawthorn, having, when stuck in the ground, taken root and become a tree; as it is well known that the hawthorn grows from stakes and truncheons. The miracle of Joseph of Arimathea is nothing compared with that of Mr. John Wallis, timber surveyor of Chelsea, author of 'Dendrology,' who exhibited to the Horticultural and Linnæan Societies, in 1834, a branch of hawthorn, which, he said, had hung for several years in a hedge among other trees; and, though without any root, or even touching the earth, had produced, every year, leaves, flowers, and fruit!" Of St. Joseph himself, Alban Butler gives a very meagre account, not even mentioning his death or place of burial; so that, outside Glastonbury, we may infer he had small reputation. We must not, however, forget that he is supposed to have brought the Holy Grail into England. Wynkyn de Worde printed a book called "The Life of Joseph of Armathy," and Pynson printed two--one "De Sancto Joseph ab Arimathia," 1516, and "The Lyfe of Joseph of Arimathia," 1520. THE WANDERING JEW; OR, THE SHOEMAKER OF JERUSALEM. Who lived when our Lord and Saviour JESUS CHRIST was Crucified, _And by Him Appointed to Wander until He comes again_. With his Travels, Method of Living, and a Discourse with some Clergymen about the End of the World. [Illustration] PRINTED AND SOLD IN ALDERMARY CHURCH-YARD, BOW LANE, LONDON. THE WANDERING JEW. This version is but a catchpenny, and principally consists of a fanciful dialogue between the Wandering Jew and a clergyman. This famous myth seems to have had its origin in the Gospel of St. John (xxi. 22), which, although it does not refer to him, evidently was the source of the idea of his tarrying on earth until the second coming of our Saviour. The legend is common to several countries in Europe, and we, in these latter days, are familiar with it in Dr. Croly's "Salathiel," "St. Leon," "Le Juif Errant," and "The Undying One." It is certain it was in existence before the thirteenth century, for it is given in Roger of Wendover, 1228, as being known; for an Armenian archbishop, who was then in England, declared that he knew him. His name is generally received as Cartaphilus, but he was known, in different countries and ages, also as Ahasuerus, Josephus, and Isaac Lakedion. The usual legend is that he was Pontius Pilate's porter, and when they were dragging Jesus out of the door of the judgment-hall, he struck him on the back with his fist, saying, "Go faster, Jesus, go faster: why dost thou linger?" Upon which Jesus looked at him with a frown, and said, "I, indeed, am going; but thou shalt tarry till I come." He was afterwards converted and baptized by the name of Joseph. He is believed every hundred years to have an illness, ending in a trance, from which he awakes restored to the age he was at our Saviour's Crucifixion. Many impostors in various countries have personated him. THE GOSPEL OF NICODEMUS. _In thirteen Chapters._ 1. Jesus Accused of the Jews before Pilate. 2. Some of them spake for him. 3. Pilate takes Counsel of Ancient Lawyers, etc. 4. Nicodemus speaks to Pilate for Jesus. 5. Certain Jews shew Pilate the Miracles which Christ had done to some of them. 6. Pilate commands that no villains should put him to his Passion, but only Knights. 7. Centurio tells Pilate of the Wonders that were done at Christ's Passion; and of the fine Cloth of Syndonia. 8. The Jews conspire against Nicodemus and Joseph. 9. One of the Knights that kept the Sepulchre of our Lord, came and told the Master of the Law, that our Lord was gone into Gallilee. 10. Three men who came from Gallilee to Jerusalem say they saw Jesus alive. 11. The Jews chuse eight men who were Joseph's friends, to desire him to come to them. 12. Joseph tells of divers dead Men risen, especially of Simon's two sons, Garius and Levicius. 13. Nicodemus and Joseph tell Pilate all that those two Men had said; and how Pilate treated with the Princes of the Law. NEWCASTLE: PRINTED IN THIS PRESENT YEAR. This is a translation by John Warren, priest, of this apocryphal Gospel, of which the frontispiece is a summary, and varies very little from that given by Hone, who, in his prefatory notice says, "Although this Gospel is, by some among the learned, supposed to have been really written by Nicodemus, who became a disciple of Jesus Christ, and conversed with him; others conjecture it was a forgery towards the close of the third century, by some zealous believer, who, observing that there had been appeals made by the Christians of the former Age, to the Acts of Pilate, but that such Acts could not be produced, imagined it would be of service to Christianity to fabricate and publish this Gospel; as it would both confirm the Christians under persecution, and convince the Heathens of the truth of the Christian religion.... Whether it be canonical or not, it is of very great antiquity, and is appealed to by several of the ancient Christians." Wynkyn de Worde published several editions of it--in 1509, 1511, 1512, 1518, 1532--and his headings of the chapters differ very slightly from those already given. The unhappy Birth, wicked Life, and miserable Death of that vile Traytor and Apostle JUDAS ISCARIOT, _Who, for Thirty Pieces of Silver betrayed his Lord and Master_ _JESUS CHRIST_. SHEWING 1. His Mother's Dream after Conception, the Manner of his Birth; and the evident Marks of his future shame. 2. How his Parents, inclosing him in a little chest, threw him into the Sea, where he was found by a King on the Coast of Iscariot, who called him by that Name. 3. His advancement to be the King's Privy Counsellor; and how he unfortunately killed the King's Son. 4. He flies to Joppa; and unknowingly, slew his own Father, for which he was obliged to abscond a Second Time. 5. Returning a Year after, he married his own Mother, who knew him to be her own Child, by the particular marks he had, and by his own Declaration. 6. And lastly, seeming to repent of his wicked Life, he followed our Blessed Saviour, and became one of his Apostles; But after betrayed him into the Hands of the Chief Priests for Thirty Pieces of Silver, and then miserably hanged himself, whose Bowels dropt out of his Belly. TO WHICH IS ADDED, _A Short RELATION of the Sufferings of Our BLESSED REDEEMER_, Also the Life and miserable Death of PONTIUS PILATE, Who condemn'd the Lord of Life to Death. _Being collected from the Writings of Josephus Sozomenus, and other Ecclesiastical Historians._ DURHAM: PRINTED AND SOLD BY ISAAC LANE. _A Terrible and seasonable Warning to young Men._ Being a very particular and True Relation of one _Abraham Joiner_ a young Man about 17 or 18 Years of Age, living in _Shakesby's_ Walks in _Shadwell_, being a Ballast Man by Profession, who on _Saturday_ Night last pick'd up a leud Woman, and spent what Money he had about him in Treating her, saying afterwards, if she wou'd have any more he must go to the Devil for it, and slipping out of her Company, he went to the _Cock_ and _Lyon_ in _King Street_, the Devil appear'd to him, and gave him a Pistole, telling him _he shou'd never want for Money_, appointing to meet him the next Night at the _World's End_ at Stepney; Also how his Brother perswaded him to throw the Money away, which he did; but was suddenly taken in a very strange manner; so that they were fain to send for the Reverend Mr. Constable and other Ministers to pray with him; he appearing now to be very Penitent; with an Account of the Prayers and Expressions he makes use of under his Affliction, and the prayers that were made for him to free him from this violent Temptation. The Truth of which is sufficiently attested in the Neighbourhood, he lying now at his mother's house, etc. [Illustration] LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. DUTTON, NEAR FLEET STREET. THE _KENTISH MIRACLE_ =Or, a Seasonable Warning to all Sinners= SHEWN IN The Wonderful Relation of one Mary Moore, whose Husband died some time ago, and left her with two Children, who was reduced to great Want; How she wandered about the Country asking Relief, and went two Days without any food. How the Devil appeared to her, and the many great Offers he made to her to deny Christ, and enter into his Service; and how she confounded Satan by powerful Arguments. How she came to a Well of Water, when she fell down on her Knees to pray to God, that he would give that Vertue to the Water that it might refresh and satisfy her Children's Hunger; with an Account how an Angel appeared to her and relieved her; also declared many things that shall happen in the Month of March next; shewing likewise what strange and surprizing Accidents shall happen by means of the present War; and concerning a dreadful Earthquake, etc. EDINBURGH: PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1741. THE =Witch of the Woodlands;= OR, THE _COBLER'S NEW TRANSLATION_. Here Robin the Cobler for his former Evils, Is punish'd bad as Faustus with his Devils. [Illustration] PRINTED AND SOLD IN ALDERMARY CHURCH YARD, BOW LANE, LONDON. Here the old Witches dance, and then agree, How to fit Robin for his Lechery; First he is made a Fox and hunted on, 'Till he becomes an Horse, an Owl, a Swan. At length their Spells of Witchcraft they withdrew, But Robin still more hardships must go through; For e'er he is transform'd into a Man, They make him kiss their bums and glad he can. [Illustration] This is the argument of the story, which is too broad in its humour to be reprinted, but the following two illustrations show the popular idea of his Satanic Majesty and his dealings with witches. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE HISTORY OF DR. JOHN FAUSTUS. There is very little similarity between this history and Goethe's beautiful drama. This is essentially vulgar, and perfectly fitted for the popular taste it catered for; but we, who are familiar with Goethe's masterpiece, can hardly read it without a shudder. It has been given at length, because it is a type of its class. The History of Faust (who, as far as one can learn, existed early in the sixteenth century) has been repeatedly written, especially in Germany, where it first appeared in 1587, published at Frankfurt-on-the-Main, and it was soon translated into English by P. K. Gent. Marlowe produced his "Tragicall History of D. Faustus" in 1589, and in an entry in the Register of the Stationers' Company it appears that in the year 1588 "A Ballad of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, the great Congerer," was licensed to be printed,[2] so that it soon became well rooted in England. It has been a favourite theme with dramatists and musicians, and has even been the subject of a harlequinade, "The Necromancer; or Harlequin Dr. Faustus" (London, 1723). It was a popular Chap book, and many versions were published of it in various parts of the country. J. O. Halliwell Phillips, Esq., has an English edition of Faustus printed 1592, unknown to Herbert or Lowndes. [Footnote 2: Probably the original of that ballad, "The Judgment of God shewed upon one J. Faustus Dr. in Divinity," of which the British Museum possesses two versions--Rox. II. 235 and (643 m. 10,)/55. the date of both being attributed 1670.] THE HISTORY OF =Dr. John Faustus,= SHEWING _How he sold himself to the Devil to have power to do what he pleased for twenty-four years_. ALSO STRANGE THINGS DONE BY HIM AND HIS SERVANT MEPHISTOPHOLES. With an Account how the Devil came for him, and tore him in Pieces. [Illustration] PRINTED AND SOLD IN ALDERMARY CHURCH YARD BOW LANE, LONDON. [Illustration] THE HISTORY OF DR. JOHN FAUSTUS. CHAP. 1. THE DOCTOR'S BIRTH AND EDUCATION. Dr. John Faustus was born in Germany: his father was a poor labouring man, not able to give him any manner of education; but he had a brother in the country, a rich man, who having no child of his own, took a great fancy to his nephew, and resolved to make him a scholar. Accordingly he put him to a grammar school, where he took learning extraordinary well; and afterwards to the University to study Divinity. But Faustus, not liking that employment, betook himself to the study of Necromancy and Conjuration, in which arts he made such a proficiency, that in a short time none could equal him. However he studied Divinity so far, that he took his Doctor's Degree in that faculty; after which he threw the scripture from him, and followed his own inclinations. CHAP. 2. DR. FAUSTUS RAISES THE DEVIL, AND AFTERWARDS MAKES HIM APPEAR AT HIS OWN HOUSE. Faustus whose restless mind studied day and night, dressed his imagination with the wings of an eagle, and endeavoured to fly all over the world, and see and know the secrets of heaven and earth. In short he obtained power to command the Devil to appear before him whenever he pleased. One day as Dr. Faustus was walking in a wood near Wirtemberg in Germany, having a friend with him who was desirous to see his art, and requested him to let him see if he could then and there bring Mephistopholes before them. The Doctor immediately called, and the Devil at the first summons made such a hedious noise in the wood as if heaven and earth were coming together. And after this made a roaring as if the wood had been full of wild beasts. Then the Doctor made a Circle for the Devil, which he danced round with a noise like that of ten thousand waggons running upon paved stones. After this it thundered and lightened as if the world had been at an end. [Illustration] Faustus and his friend, amazed at the noise, and frighted at the devil's long stay, would have departed; but the Devil cheared them with such musick, as they never heard before. This so encouraged Faustus, that he began to command Mephistopholes, in the name of the prince of Darkness, to appear in his own likeness; on which in an instant hung over his head a mighty dragon.--Faustus called him again, as he was used, after which there was a cry in the wood as if Hell had been opened, and all the tormented souls had been there--Faustus in the mean time asked the devil many questions, and commanded him to shew a great many tricks. CHAP. 3. MEPHISTOPHOLES COMES TO THE DOCTOR'S HOUSE; AND OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN THEM. Faustus commanded the spirit to meet him at his own house by ten o'clock the next day. At the hour appointed he came into his chamber, demanding what he would have? Faustus told him it was his will and pleasure to conjure him to be obedient to him in all points of these articles, viz. First, that the Spirit should serve him in all things he asked, from that time till death. Secondly, whosoever he would have, the spirit should bring him. Thirdly. Whatsoever he desired for to know he should tell him. [Illustration] The Spirit told him he had no such power of himself, until he had acquainted his prince that ruled over him. For, said he, we have rulers over us, who send us out and call us home when they will; and we can act no farther than the power we receive from Lucifer, who you know for his pride was thrust out of heaven. But I can tell you no more, unless you bind yourself to us--I will have my request replied Faustus, and yet not be damned with you--Then said the spirit, you must not, nor shall not have your desire, and yet thou art mine and all the world cannot save thee from my power. Then get you hence, said Faustus, and I conjure thee that thou come to me at night again. Then the spirit vanished, and Doctor Faustus began to consider by what means he could obtain his desires without binding himself to the Devil. [Illustration: This is a rough copy of the frontispiece to Gent's translation, ed. 1648.] While Faustus was in these cogitations, night drew on, and then the spirit appeared, acquainting him that now he had orders from his prince to be obedient to him, and to do for him what he desired, and bid him shew what he would have.--Faustus replied, His desire was to become a Spirit, and that Mephistopholes should always be at his command; that whenever he pleased he should appear invisible to all men.--The Spirit answered his request should be granted if he would sign the articles pronounced to him viz, That Faustus should give himself over body and soul to Lucifer, deny his Belief, and become an enemy to all good men; and that the writings should be made with his own blood.--Faustus agreeing to all this, the Spirit promised he should have his heart's desire, and the power to turn into any shape, and have a thousand spirits at command. CHAP. 4. FAUSTUS LETS HIMSELF BLOOD, AND MAKES HIMSELF OVER TO THE DEVIL. The Spirit appearing in the morning to Faustus, told him, That now he was come to see the writing executed and give him power. Whereupon Faustus took out a knife, pricked a vein in his left arm, and drew blood, with which he wrote as follows: [Illustration] "I, JOHN FAUSTUS, Doctor in Divinity, do openly acknowlege That in all my studying of the course of nature and the elements, I could never attain to my desire; I finding men unable to assist me, have made my addresses to the Prince of Darkness, and his messenger Mephistopholes, giving them both soul and body, on condition that they fully execute my desires; the which they have promised me. I do also further grant by these presents, that if I be duly served, when and in what place I command, and have every thing that I ask for during the space of twenty four years, then I agree that at the expiration of the said term, you shall do with Me and Mine, Body and Soul, as you please. Hereby protesting, that I deny God and Christ and all the host of heaven. And as for the further consideration of this my writing, I have subscribed it with my own hand, sealed it with my own seal, and writ it with my own blood. JOHN FAUSTUS." No sooner had Faustus sent his name to the writing, but his spirit Mephistopholes appeared all wrapt in fire, and out of his mouth issued fire; and in an instant came a pack of hounds in full cry. Afterwards came a bull dancing before him, then a lion and a bear fighting. All these and many spectacles more did the Spirit present to the Doctor's view, concluding with all manner of musick, and some hundreds of spirits dancing before him.--This being ended, Faustus looking about saw seven sacks of silver, which he went to dispose of, but could not handle himself, it was so hot. [Illustration] This diversion so pleased Faustus, that he gave Mephistopholes the writing he had made, and kept a copy of it in his own hands. The Spirit and Faustus being agreed, they dwelt together, and the devil was never absent from his councils. CHAP. 5. HOW FAUSTUS SERVED THE ELECTORAL DUKE OF BAVARIA. Faustus having sold his soul to the Devil, it was soon reported among the neighbours, and no one would keep him company, but his spirit, who was frequently with him, playing of strange tricks to please him. Not far from Faustus's house lived the Duke of Bavaria, the Bishop of Saltzburg, and the Duke of Saxony, whose houses and cellars Mephistopholes used to visit, and bring from thence the best provision their houses afforded. One day the Duke of Bavaria had invited most of the gentry of that country to dinner, in an instant came Mephistopholes and took all with him, leaving them full of admiration. If at any time Faustus had a mind for wild or tame fowl, the Spirit would call whole flocks in at the window. He also taught Faustus to do the like so that no locks nor bolts could hinder them. The devil also taught Faustus to fly in the air, and act many things that are incredible, and too large for this book to contain. CHAP. 6. FAUSTUS DREAM OF HELL, AND WHAT HE SAW THERE. After Faustus had had a long conference with the Spirit concerning the fall of Lucifer, the state and condition of the fallen angels, he in a dream saw Hell and the Devils. Having seen this sight he marvelled much at it, and having Mephistopholes on his side, he asked him what sort of people they was who lay in the first dark pit? Mephistopholes told him they were those who pretended to be physicians, and had poisoned many thousands in trying practices; and now said the spirit, they have the very same administered unto them which they prescribed to others, though not with the same effect; for here, said he, they are denied the happiness to die.--Over their heads were long shelves full of vials and gallipots of poison. Having passed by them, he came to a long entry exceeding dark, where was a great crowd: I asked what they were? and the Spirit told me They were pick pockets, who, because they loved to be in a crowd in the other world, were also crowded here together. Among these were some padders on the highway, and others of that function. Walking farther I saw many thousand vintners and some millions of taylors; insomuch there was scarce room enough for them in the place destined for their reception. A little farther the Spirit opened a cellar door, from which issued a smoke almost enough to choak me, with a dismal noise; I asked what they were? and the Spirit told me, They were Witches, such as had been pretended Saints in the other world, but now having lost their veil, they squabble, fight and tear one another. A few steps farther I espied a great number almost hid with
of the Test Act, the imprisonment of the Seven Bishops, and lastly the invitation to William of Orange, with the abdication and flight of James, his queen and son. On these latter medals frequent allusions are made to the supposed illegitimacy of the young Prince. The series of plots and rebellions which followed the flight of James are for the most part recorded by medals struck by the Stuarts abroad (Nos. 292—319): these were issued for distribution among those who sympathised with the exiled house. The medals which bear the portraits of James II. and his son are supposed to have been presented to those who visited them in their exile. No. 311, on which the rule of the House of Hanover is satirized, is one of the medals struck for the purpose of rousing the adherents of the House of Stuart into action; whilst No. 315 refers to the rebellion of 1745, and the next medal to the secret visit of the Younger Pretender to London in 1752, when he was again planning an invasion. The series ends with a medal setting forth the claims of Henry Duke of York as Henry IX. to the throne of his grandfather. With the Stuart family are specially connected the medalets which are called touch-pieces (Nos. 320—324). The custom of touching by the sovereigns of this country for the cure of scrofula or 'the King's evil' appears to have existed since the reign of Edward the Confessor. At first the practice was rare, but in course of time it increased to such an extent that it is said Elizabeth's 'healings,' which were at first monthly, became of daily occurrence, and many thousands were touched. The power was not claimed by Cromwell; but at the Restoration it was revived, and Charles touched during his reign over 90,000 applicants. It was also much practised by James II., but repudiated by William III. It was again revived by Anne, who was the latest sovereign to perform the ceremony, and among the last of those whom she touched was the afterwards celebrated Dr. Johnson. The Elder Pretender claimed the power, and so did his sons Charles and Henry, the former having exercised it in the name of his father at Edinburgh during the rebellion of 1745. It was during the reign of Henry VII. that the presentation to each applicant of a small piece of gold attached to a band of white ribbon was first generally introduced. The angel was the piece given, partly because it was the smallest gold coin struck and partly on account of a certain fitness of type and inscription, having on one side the archangel Michael overcoming the dragon, and on the other side a ship in the sea and the inscription 'Per crucem tuam salva nos Christe Redemptor.' The coin remained of the same type during the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I.; but the inscription in each case was changed. At the Restoration, when the angel was no longer issued as a current coin, Charles II. ordered medalets of similar type to be struck, bearing the inscription 'Soli Deo gloria.' On account of the attendance at the 'healings' having so largely increased, these medalets are much less in weight and size than the angel. James II. was the first king to strike the medalets in silver as well as in gold; which were scarcely half the size of Charles II.'s. The Elder Pretender as James III. also struck them in gold and silver. There are no pieces known of Charles Edward; but of his brother the Cardinal, as Henry IX. there are specimens in silver. The medalet given by Anne is of gold and somewhat larger than that of James II. The medals of William and Mary and of Anne are the most numerous and historically the most complete of the English series. This may be attributed to the stirring events due to the connection of the interests of England and Holland and to the number of active medallists of Holland and Germany. The journey of William to England, his landing at Torbay, his subsequent coronation and the flight of James, are illustrated by a number of medals of which interesting examples are described in this Guide. The rebellion in Ireland, with the battles of the Boyne and of Aghrim, and the capture of towns, next follow. The events of the war with France, concluded in 1697 by the Peace of Ryswick, produced medals, English, Dutch, and French, recording the naval battle of La Hogue, the taking of Namur by the French and the retaking of that city by William, the defeats of William at Steinkirk and Landen, for which his own countrymen held him up to ridicule (No. 390), the unsuccessful attempt on Brest, the bombardment of Havre and Dunkirk, and the taking of Huy. The other events commemorated by the medals are the passing of the Toleration Act in 1689, the regency of Mary, the return of William to Holland, the death of Mary, the Darien expedition, and lastly the death of William. The War of the Spanish Succession, which had begun shortly before the death of William, was even more fruitful in medals than the previous conflict with France. For the events of the campaigns of the Duke of Marlborough and of Prince Eugene of Savoy in the Netherlands and Germany, and of that in Spain, as well as for the naval victories, the reader must be referred to the descriptions given at pp. 89—104. A few other events, which happened during the reign of Anne and to which medals refer, are the establishment of the Queen Anne's Bounty, the Union of England and Scotland in 1707, the attempted invasion of Scotland by the Elder Pretender in 1708, and the trial of Sacheverell. With the accession of the House of Hanover the medallic series of England loses much of its interest. The affairs of England and Holland being no longer so closely united, the Dutch artists ceased to execute medals for England, and at that time there were few medallists in this country. The series therefore from this period is far less complete and of very inferior style and work. The only important events recorded by the medals of George I. are the Jacobite rebellion in Scotland in 1715, the war of the Quadruple Alliance, and the siege of Gibraltar. The first ten years of George II. are also devoid of medallic interest, and it is not until the outbreak of the war of the Austrian Succession that we have a piece of any merit. The best medals of this period are those of the battle of Dettingen executed by Haesling and of the battle of Minden by Holtzhey, a native of Amsterdam. Other recorded events of this reign are the taking of Porto Bello and the attempt on Carthagena by Admiral Vernon (of these events there are more than a hundred different medalets), and the Jacobite rebellion under the Younger Pretender, 1745—6. There is also a series of medals issued by the Society for the Promotion of Arts and Commerce, commemorating the conquest of Canada and the successes of the forces of England in India. In portrait-medals the most important are the works of Dassier, of whom mention has already been made. The medals which illustrate the long reign of George III. down to the battle of Waterloo in 1815, at which point this exhibition closes, will be found to record all that is of importance during that period. The events are so numerous and varied that the reader must be referred to the descriptions, which will be found at pp. 113—130. The greater portion of the medals relate to the struggle of England with her American colonists, and to the subsequent wars with France, Spain, and Holland, by sea and land. Following these are several pieces commemorating some of the battles of the Peninsular War, and bearing portraits of the principal generals, and a few personal medals of statesmen and others, among whom may be noted Washington and Benjamin Franklin. The series of historical medals closes with one of the finest productions of the art of modern times, the Waterloo medal, designed and executed by Pistrucci, a work of'surpassing size and beauty,' on which the artist spent a great portion of his life. [Sidenote: MILITARY AND NAVAL MEDALS.] The selection of military and naval medals commences with that struck for the battle of Culloden, those which were issued before that period being included in the general series. The earliest pieces which belong to this class are probably the Armada medals; their variety, their oval form, as well as the circumstance that most have rings for suspension, and some have still chains attached to them, leaving little doubt but that they were intended as decorations. There is, however, no record that they were issued by authority. Charles I. is said to have granted in 1643 medals to soldiers who distinguished themselves in forlorn hopes; and the numerous badges issued during the Civil War by the King, and the Royalist and the Parliamentary generals were undoubtedly intended as military rewards and distributed among the soldiers who fought under them. No. 106, which was issued by Fairfax after the battle of Naseby, could only have served for such a purpose. During the Commonwealth the practice of bestowing decorative medals, both military and naval, became more frequent, and on several occasions was ordered by the Parliament. Of such medals is that distributed to all engaged at the battle of Dunbar (Nos. 149—150), and also those for Blake's victories over the Dutch, as well as several others. Occasionally during the reigns of Charles II. and James II. military rewards were issued; but as none of these have rings for suspension, they cannot be considered as decorative medals. After the Commonwealth the medal for Culloden seems to be the first decorative piece: but even of this medal there is no record of its having been distributed by authority. Of that battle there is also a circular medal with loop in copper, the type being the Duke of Cumberland on horseback, which might also have served for distribution. Again a long period elapses during which no decorative medals appear; and the victories of the Nile and Trafalgar would have remained unrewarded, but for the munificence and patriotism of two Englishmen, Alexander Davison and Matthew Boulton (see Nos. 539 and 544). In 1784 the East India Company acknowledged the services of its troops by awarding a medal for the campaign in the West of India, an example which originated a custom; and from that time, as long as India remained under the control of the Company, medals were awarded for all subsequent wars. The first medal issued by authority in England in this century is that given for the battle of Waterloo. It was conferred by order of the Prince Regent upon every officer and private present at that battle; but no acknowledgment was made of all the brilliant engagements in the Peninsular War till 1847, when a medal was issued for military services between the years 1793—1814 (No. 592). At the same time a corresponding medal for naval services was ordered to be struck for all naval engagements during the same period. Since the accession of her Majesty medals have been awarded for every campaign, as well as others for'meritorious service,' 'long service,' &c. Besides the medals issued by the authority of the Crown and those of the East India Company, there are a number of Regimental medals, of which some are exhibited. These were struck at the expense of the officers of the regiments for distribution among those who served under them; but this custom ceased when a public acknowledgment was paid to the services of the army. The medals issued by the East India Company, being mostly of Indian work, have been classed separately, and will be found at the end of the series. As they were generally awarded only to Native troops, they are for the most part very scarce. [Sidenote: METHOD OF PRODUCTION.] Before proceeding to give some account of the medallists[1] themselves, it may be useful to state shortly in what manner they accomplished their work. This was done in four different ways, by casting, by the repoussé process, by engraving, and by striking. Specimens of all kinds of work will be found in this exhibition. [1] Biographical notices of the medallists, whose works are exhibited, are given with the descriptions of the medals. These can be found by reference to the Index of Artists at p. 143. In the case of casting, a method which was first adopted in Italy in the fourteenth century, the mode was sometimes elaborate. A model having been made in wax, it was painted over several times with layers of cement made of fine earth or charcoal stiffened with some kind of lye, until this dried and hardened upon the wax, and the foundation of a mould was formed. When the mould was finished and completely hardened, the wax was melted out, and the medal was then cast in some hard metal, gold, silver, or copper, or in lead. By this process the first mould was destroyed, and all subsequent ones had to be taken from the medals themselves; consequently in time, with each fresh casting, they became less sharp and perfect. Another method of casting was, after executing a model in wax, to make moulds from it in sand, in which the medal was then cast. By this means the original mould was not destroyed, and would serve for use any number of times. But these casts were not so successful as those made after the Italian method; and in order to remove from the surface the roughness of the casting, the medals were then submitted to the medallist's or goldsmith's hands to be chased. In this manner a smooth and sharp surface was obtained; but the chasing required to be very skilfully done. The castings in lead on account of the softness of the material took a much more even surface than in the case of the harder metals, and rarely required any after-chasing. The process of repoussé work in its first stage was somewhat similar to casting. A model was made in wax, from which a mould in a hard metal was cast, and on this hard mould was placed a thin silver or copper plate, which was then beaten into the mould with a hammer till it received its final form. This process was a long and difficult one, and required much skill; consequently the number of repoussé medals is very small as compared with those which were cast. Repoussé work had one great advantage, that of obtaining a high relief, and on good medals, a striking effect. Not unfrequently, especially in Germany, the mould was made of wood, and the plate then hammered into it; but this method was not so satisfactory, as the degree of sharpness was much lessened. The process of engraving was more simple; but perhaps not less difficult. The medals were executed by direct incision with the graver or dry point on a plate of silver or steel, and thus every line told, and the excellence of the work depended upon the accuracy and sharpness of the outline. In the case of struck medals, the die was engraved or cut in steel, which was hardened, and from which proofs were struck in gold, silver, copper, &c. This process was not at first successful, as the mode of striking was simply by the hammer, by which means sufficient force could not be obtained. This was, however, obviated by the invention of the screw, which was first adopted in the sixteenth century, but did not entirely supersede the use of the hammer until the middle of the seventeenth century. Medals are now as a rule produced by striking. [Sidenote: MEDALLIC ART.] Of the medallists who worked during the reign of Henry VIII. we know nothing, and none of the medals bear the artists' signatures. The process employed was that of casting; but this was often done with little skill, and in consequence all the medals are highly chased. The medals of the reign of Edward VI. show no improvement in the art; but those of Mary and Philip, which are exhibited, being executed by the Italian artist Trezzo, are of far superior work. It is scarcely fair to class these among English medals, as they were executed in Madrid under the orders of Philip II., in whose service Trezzo was retained during the greater part of his life. That the works of this artist were much esteemed in his own time we learn from Vasari, who says, 'This master has no equal for portraits from life, and is an artist of the highest merit in other respects.' During the reign of Elizabeth, a great improvement is manifest in medallic art, which may be seen in the medals commemorating the defeat of the Spanish Armada, all of which, so far as it is known, were produced by native artists. There are other fine medals of this reign; but these are the work of foreign artists. Of such is the remarkable one with the portrait of Mary Queen of Scots by Primavera, and also a number of Dutch medals, among which are the splendid life-like portraits by Stephen of Holland. These medals are all cast and afterwards chased, and are certainly very fine examples of Dutch art. It is not improbable that this artist first studied at Nuremberg, which was the great school for medallists in Germany, and in which Albert Dürer himself had worked. The medals of James I. are for the most part of Dutch work; and as few are signed, we are unable to ascertain by whom the majority were executed. As at this period the new invention of the screw for striking coins and medals was coming into general use, there are in consequence a number of struck medals. The engraved portraits of the royal family and others, classed at the end of the series of James I., are by Simon Passe. This artist worked chiefly with the graver in a neat clear style, which possesses much originality. His works have great merit in their class, especially his portraits, many of which were taken from life, and are remarkable for their precision and sharpness of outline. Besides these medals Passe executed frontispieces and bookplates, which are also well engraved. The abundant medals of the reign of Charles I. and of the Commonwealth were chiefly produced by three artists, Thomas Simon, his brother Abraham, and Thomas Rawlins. We must add to these the works of Nicholas Briot, who by his new invention of the balance for striking coins and medals had rendered great service to medallic art. His medals as well as his coins are all remarkable for their clearness of design and sharpness of execution. Briot did not reside in England after 1633, so that all his works date from the early part of Charles's reign. There are also a few medals by Jean Varin or Warin, who with George Dupré ranks first among French medallists. His medals are always cast, and generally in high relief. Of the two Simons it may be truly said that they stand first as English medallists, the beauty of their work having never been equalled in this country. As portraits the personal medals are faithful and expressive. The brothers produced joint as well as separate medals: in the case of a joint work Abraham appears to have made the model, whilst Thomas, who was a more skilful engraver, did the after-chasing. From an example in the British Museum, it is evident that the Simons first made their models in wax, and from these or from moulds in sand then cast their medals. The work of Thomas Simon was not confined to medals, for he executed all the Seals for the Commonwealth and for Charles II., as well as a fine set of coins which bear the portrait of the Protector. His last work of this kind, the Petition Crown of Charles II., has never been equalled in technical delicacy of execution, and is certainly the finest coin of modern times. Thomas Rawlins cannot be mentioned in such high terms as the Simons. His work was far above the average; but it failed to attain the sharpness and high finish which characterise that of his two rivals. Some of his coins are perhaps superior to his medals. Mention may be made here of the work of two other artists, specimens of whose medals will be found exhibited among those of Charles II. These are Pieter van Abeele and Müller, whom Bolzenthal calls 'der Meister Müller,' two Dutch medallists who worked in the repoussé style before and during the reign of Charles II. The medals of these artists are in high relief, and are executed with marked skill. Some of them are chased. At the Restoration Rawlins was reinstated in the place of Chief Engraver to the Mint which he had held before the Commonwealth; and as his attention appears to have been chiefly directed to the coinage, there are very few medals by him after this time. It was not so with Thomas Simon, who was specially engaged to prepare dies for the new Seals, for he continued to work at his medals and produced a large number, including several for the coronation. There are some medals (Nos. 182—183), executed by him in anticipation of the Restoration, which were probably made with the object of retaining through the merit of his work the post of Chief Engraver, to which he had been appointed by Cromwell. In this he did not succeed, but was transferred from the Mint to the Office of Seals. Abraham Simon also continued to work for some time after the Restoration; but he held no official post. In the meanwhile a new set of artists had sprung up in England, who with few exceptions monopolised the medallic work in this country during the reign of Charles II. These are the Roettiers, who had been introduced to Charles during his stay in Holland, and of whom there were three brothers, John, Joseph, and Philip. It is of the eldest brother, John, that we have the most numerous and finest works. The character of the medals of this period differs very much from those of the Commonwealth. They are always struck, as the new invention of Briot had now quite superseded the hammer, and are in low relief. The execution of the work is good, the medals being very sharply cut and the portraits full of expression, whilst the reverses have a more picturesque style, somewhat approaching that of the Italian medals of the sixteenth century, but in lower relief. The only other medallist of this period who calls for notice is George Bower or Bowers, the style of whose work is similar to that of the Roettiers, although not of such good execution and finish. John Roettier and Bower still continued to work during the reign of James II., and during a portion of that of William and Mary; but with the accession of William, the Dutch period of medallic art in England began and continued till the death of Anne. The artists of this time are very numerous, but only the chief ones need be here enumerated, who are Jan and Martin Smeltzing, brothers, Jan Luder, Jan Boskam, Georg Hautsch, and Jan Crocker or Croker. This last artist not only executed a large series of medals, but he also cut all the dies for the coinage of Anne as well as many of that of George I. and George II. The style of the medals of the Dutch period is somewhat similar to that of the Roettiers, the relief being still lower. The reverse designs are also often picturesque, and, although minute in design, are usually distinct and in good perspective. The accession of the House of Hanover introduced into England some German artists; but few of them are of any note. Of the medallists who worked in England from the accession of George I. to the end of the last century, are J. A. Dassier, who executed the large series of medals of English Sovereigns from William I. to George II.; Richard Yeo, who made the Culloden medal; Thomas Pingo, who made the Gibraltar medal of 1782, and several medals for societies; C. H. Küchler, who executed the Nile and Trafalgar medals; and J. G. Hancock, whose works are very numerous. Medallic art of the present century in England owes all its merit to the work of Pistrucci, an Italian who came to this country in 1815 and remained here till his death in 1855, and to the work of the Wyon Family. To Pistrucci we are indebted for the famous Waterloo Medal, for many medals of learned societies, and for some of our finest coin-dies; and to the Wyons, for the military and naval medals as well as for a most extensive series of academical and other pieces. Since the resignation by Pistrucci of the office of Engraver to the Mint, the Wyons have held that post and have produced the greater portion of the dies for coins. In concluding this sketch of medallic art in England, some mention should be made of the efforts of several public-spirited firms, which at the beginning of the present century produced series of medals commemorating some of the great events of English history at that time. The most important of these is the series of National Medals of James Mudie, on which work a number of foreign as well as native artists were employed; and it is remarkable that these engravers include eminent French medallists who commemorated the English successes in the wars with France. My acknowledgments are due to Mr. A. W. Franks, F.R.S., for much assistance, and for the use of his valuable notes on Mr. Edward Hawkins' unpublished work referred to in the Preface; and also to the Hon. C. W. Fremantle, C.B., Deputy-Master of the Mint, to Mr. L. C. Wyon, and to Mr. A. B. Wyon, for important information and suggestions. HERBERT A. GRUEBER. GUIDE TO ENGLISH MEDALS EXHIBITED. EDWARD IV. 1461—1483. 1. John Kendal, 1480. _Obv._ Bust r., in armour, wearing cross of order of St. John. IO. KENDAL RHODI TVRCVPELLERIVS. _Rev._ Shield, arms of Kendal, the cross of St. John in chief. TEMPORE OBSIDIONIS TVRCHORVM. MCCCCLXXX. Bronze. Size 2·2. Cast and chased. Italian. John Kendal was Prior of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem in London in 1491 and 1501 (Willis's Mit. Abb.). He was Lieutenant of the Grand Master in Italy, England, Flanders, and Ireland, and in virtue of that office was engaged in 1480 in raising recruits for the defence of Rhodes against the Turks. HENRY VIII. 1509—1547. 2. Badge of Rose. _Obv._ Bust of King l., wearing hat, cloak, &c. HENRICVS VIII. DEI GRA. REX ANGL. FRANC. DOM. HYB. _Rev._ Tudor rose; above, ODOR EIVS VT LIBANI; below, DEFENSOR FIDEI. Silver. Size 1·3. Cast and chased. This medal is without date; but the title of Lord of Ireland (DOM. HYB.) shows that it was executed before 1541. 3. Medallic Portrait. Bust of King, nearly full face, towards r., wearing hat with feather and ermine cloak; around neck, collar and medal, cross of St. George. Copper gilt. Size 3·9. Cast. This portrait is after a painting by Holbein. 4—5. Portrait with title of "Head of the Church," 1545. _Obv._ Bust of King r., wearing cap, ermine cloak, and collar. HENRICVS OCTA. &c. FIDEI DEFENSOR ET IN TERR. ECCLE. ANGLI. ET HIBE. SVB CHRIST. CAPVT SVPREMVM. _Rev._ Two inscriptions of same import as that on the obverse; one in Hebrew, the other in Greek; above H. R.; below, _Londini_, 1545. Gold and silver. Size 2·05. Cast and chased. Henry's supremacy over the church was acknowledged by the clergy 1531, and confirmed by Parliament 1534. This medal was not struck till 1545. 6. Badge. Half-length figure of King, full face, wearing hat, robes trimmed with fur, &c. HENRIC. OCT. REX ANGL. Z. FRANC. Laurel-border. Silver. Oval. Size 2·3. Cast and chased. This may have been worn as a badge of some society. 7. Anne Boleyn, 1534. _Obv._ Bust of Queen, nearly full face, towards l., wearing coif with veil, &c., in field, A. R. THE MOOST HAPPI. ANNO 1534. Reverse plain. Lead. Size 1·5. Cast. Anne Boleyn, daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn, and second wife of Henry VIII., married 1535, and beheaded 19th May, 1536. 8. Sir Thomas More, 1535. _Obv._ Bust r., wearing biretta and fur cloak. THOMAS MORVS ANGLIÆ CANCEL. _Rev._ A cypress felled, the axe in the trunk. SVAVIVS OLET. Copper. Size 2·3. Cast and chased. Sir Thomas More, born 1480, was appointed Keeper of the Great Seal 1529; beheaded 6 July, 1535. The reverse typifies More under the form of a cypress, which has fallen under the stroke of the axe, but whose odour has thus become more fragrant. 9. Another. _Obv._ Bust of More, three quarters l., wearing biretta, fur cloak, &c. EFFIGIES THOMÆ MORI MARTIRIS ANGLI. _Rev._ Bust of St. Thomas à Becket, three quarters r., in archiepiscopal dress, holding cross and book. S. THOMAS ARCHIEP. CANTVAR. MART. AN. 1171. Silver. Size 1·45. All engraved. This medal draws a parallel between the death of St. Thomas à Becket and Sir Thomas More, both champions of their faith, and both put to death under royal displeasure. 10. Thomas Cromwell, 1538. _Obv._ Bust l., wearing cap and gown trimmed with fur. IMAGO D. THOMÆ CRVMVELLI REG'. SECRET'. AN^o. 38. _Rev._ Within garter, armorial shield of Cromwell, two coats quarterly: coronet attached to rim for suspension. Silver-gilt. Size 2·05. Cast and chased. Thomas Cromwell, born 1490, was secretary to Wolsey, and afterwards promoted by Henry VIII. to the highest offices of the State; created Earl of Essex April 1540 and beheaded in July of same year. 11. Michael Mercator, 1539. _Obv._ Bust, three quarters l., wearing cap, fur cloak, &c. A REGE ANGLORVM PRIMI MILITIS CREATI EX VENLO EFFIGIES. _Rev._ MICHAEL MERCATOR ÆTATIS SVÆ XLVIII. GRATIA DEO ET REGI. MDXXXIX.; _Engraved._ Silver. Size 1·8. Cast and chased. In 1528 Michael Mercator, or, as Sir Thomas More in writing to Wolsey calls him, Michael the Gueldrois, was sent to Henry VIII. by Mons. de Ysselstein, on a confidential mission respecting the affairs of the Low Countries. Again in 1538 in two letters of Floris d'Egmont, Count of Buren and Lord of Ysselstein, one to Henry VIII. and the other to Cromwell, we find him requesting the kind reception of Michael Mercator. These letters also refer to Mercator's artistic skill, and we learn from Puteanus or Du Puy that he excelled in medallic portraits, and that this medal, which is of contemporary workmanship, was executed by himself. It was on this second visit to England that he received the order of Knighthood from the King. 12. Another. Similar: bust in profile l., and reverse inscription in relief. Lead. Size 1·8. Cast. EDWARD VI. 1547—1553. 13. Portrait, 1547. _Obv._ Half-length figure of King l., wearing cap with feather, doublet, chain, &c.; in r. hand, scroll. EDVARDVS V. (sic) DEI GRA. AN. REX; _incuse_. No reverse. Lead. Size 2·9. Cast and chased. A contemporary cast in lead, possibly a proof from a silver plate. This medal is unique, and was obtained by exchange from the Museum at Geneva. 14. Coronation, 1547. _Obv._ Half-length figure of King r., crowned, in armour, holding sword and orb. Inscription in Latin in three circles giving his titles, date of coronation MDXLVII. XX. FEBRVA. &c. _Rev._ Two inscriptions, one in Hebrew, the other in Greek of the same import as that on obverse; above, _Lambhith_, i.e. Lambeth. Gold. Size 2·35. Cast and chased. The first coronation medal executed in England. The inscriptions are similar to those on the medals of Henry VIII., struck to commemorate his supremacy over the church. (Nos. 4-5.) MARY. 1553—1558. (Medals by Giacomo da Trezzo.[2]) [2] Giacomo da Trezzo, sculptor, engraver and medallist, born at Milan at the beginning of the sixteenth century, first worked in the execution of medals for the Gonzaga family. He afterwards entered the service of Phillip II. of Spain, went to Madrid and was engaged in the decoration of the Escurial. He died at Madrid in 1589. 15. Condition of England, 1554? _Obv._ Half-length figure of Queen l., wearing coif with veil, embroidered gown, pendant pearl, &c. MARIA I. REG. ANGL. FRANC. ET HIB. FIDEI DEFENSATRIX. IAC. TREZ. _Rev._ Mary, as Peace, seated r., holding olive branch and palm, and burning instruments of war; behind, group of suppliants; in distance, circular temple. CECIS VISVS TIMIDIS QVIES. Copper. Size 2·6. Cast and chased. The design on the reverse of this medal is probably emblematic of the condition of England. By Evelyn and others it was supposed to refer to the suppression of Wyat's rebellion, and to the encouragement given to the Papal party. It was probably executed by Trezzo during his residence at Madrid. 16. Portraits of Mary and Philip, 1555. _Obv._ Half-length figure of Queen l., same as preceding. _Rev._ Half-length figure of Philip II., king of Spain r., in armour. PHILIPPVS REX, &c., IAC. TREZZO F. 1555. Copper-gilt. Size 2·6. Cast and chased. This medal was executed some little time after the marriage of Mary and Philip in 1554. 17—18. Another. _Obv._ Bust of Queen l., wearing coif with veil and embroidered gown. MARIA I. REG. ANGL. &c. _Rev._ Bust of Philip r., in armour. PHILIP. D. G. HISP. REX. Gold and silver. Size 1·45. Cast and chased. The portraits are similar to those on the previous medals. ELIZABETH. 1558—1603. 19. Badge of Garter. _Obv._ Bust of Queen l., wearing coronet of pearls, large ruff, &c. Inscr. of Garter. _Rev
lock, the famous artist, was. Despite his brilliant genius, despite the position which he had attained from the ranks of the people, he was spoken of as a boor and a savage brute where his beautiful wife was concerned. Strange, Rent thought cynically, how frequently men like these win the pearls among womanhood. He was about to say something of this kind when the hostess darted suddenly out and pounced upon Kate Charlock. With a sigh of protest the latter rose. "You must come and take my hand," Mrs. Bromley-Martin shrieked. "I am called away for the moment." With a self-sacrificing smile Kate Charlock returned to the drawing-room, followed by Rent. After the sweetness of the morning air, the atmosphere of the room was close and repellent. The gamblers sat jaded and weary, their faces ghastly where the light fell upon them, but the greedy light in their eyes was still as keen as ever. Rent could hear the swish of the cards as they slid over the green baize tables. He could hear the click of gold and the rustle of bank paper. His heart beat faster as he stood watching. What chance could there be for the common people, he asked himself, when the rich amused themselves like this? It was so demoralising, too. It seemed almost impossible to believe that the keen-eyed, eager woman sorting her cards dexterously could be the same sweet creature who had been seated by his side a few moments ago. If ever woman was in need of spiritual support, that woman was Kate Charlock. What a glorious thing it would be to play the game of platonic friend, to show her how to suffer her misfortunes calmly. She was the sort of woman, too, who in happier auspices might be a maker of history. Rent could understand men going mad for the sake of a face like that, or travelling to the end of the world to obey her lightest wish. He wondered what manner of man it was that treated so beautiful a creature with cruel indifference. He was still wondering when the open French window was flung back and an intruder entered. The intruder was not in evening dress. He was attired in a shabby flannel suit, his hair was dishevelled, his short brown beard in disorder. The man's face was a strong one, and there was an almost sinister suggestion of power about the short, blunt nose and deep-set, gleaming eyes. There was anger as well as bitter contempt written on the features as he strode across the room towards the table where Kate Charlock was seated. By instinct Arnold Rent knew that he was face to face with Mrs. Charlock's husband. The stranger strode up to her and laid his hand on her arm. Her features turned a shade paler as she glanced up. "John," she faltered. Just for a moment it occurred to Rent that the woman's face had a guilty air. "What are you doing here like this? Is anything wrong?" "Oh, I know I am out of place," the stranger said grimly. "Mrs. Bromley-Martin has asked me more than once to call, and now I am here. I have come for _you_." The speaker's stern, clear tones rang through the room, and cards were dropped for the moment. The hostess laughed. "Oh, don't mention it," she said. "I love originality. You can't think how tired one gets sometimes of bridge in a drawing-room." All eyes were turned upon Charlock, and he seemed to have become master of the situation. He walked to the windows and jerked up the blinds. The clear glow of the morning fell on tired eyes and painted faces that looked ghastly white and drawn. There was no sign of a smile on Charlock's face. "Take the tables and play outside," he said. "That will be something new, something for the papers to chatter about. But I am intruding here, and I want my wife. You will come at once. I beg your pardon, I am sure I did not mean to hurt you, but I am a little beside myself to-night. You will know why presently. I will go outside and wait for you." CHAPTER III "HOME, SWEET HOME!" Unconsciously, Charlock had tightened his grip on his wife's bare arm. A cry of pain escaped her, a murmuring, uncomplaining cry which drew a hum of sympathy from the onlookers. The red band on the white flesh was plainly visible. Rent, standing by the table, ventured a word of expostulation. Charlock saw that he was a handsome man, with a clean-shaven, sensitive face, though the eyes were resolute, and the firm lines about the mouth denoted strength of character. So much the better. As to the rest, he wore the dress coat of modern civilisation. This was Kate's sympathetic friend. There was something like a sneer on Charlock's face as he turned to Rent. "I am extremely sorry," he said. "You will forgive me, but I am quite out of place here. And in that respect I ought to have your sympathy and support, my dear sir." The other man's face flushed, and he bit his lip. The retort was so obvious, so keen and pungent, that many of the onlookers made no efforts to restrain their amusement. Kate Charlock rose from the table and turned to the stranger. "Would you mind getting my wrap for me, Mr. Rent?" she said. "I am sure, John, that Mrs. Bromley-Martin will excuse you, and I know you would prefer to wait outside for me." Charlock muttered something, and turned upon his heel. It was no time now for nice conventionalities. After the close and stuffy atmosphere the outer air was cool and refreshing. Charlock passed his hand across his eyes. He was trying to realise what had happened during the last few minutes. He could remember nothing of what he had said and done. There was but one picture uppermost in his mind--the picture of a tiny figure lying white and motionless upon a bed. That was all Charlock's world to-night. While he stood waiting, Kate Charlock lingered in the hall for a moment with Arnold Rent. There was an angry gleam in the man's eyes as he folded the wrap round his companion's shoulders. "You poor, dear child," he burst out. "So that is your husband? You will forgive me for daring to speak like this----" "One forgives everything when it is dictated by kindness such as yours," Kate Charlock murmured. "But I assure you it is nothing. It is only his manner. If you think I am in danger you are mistaken." "But his face," Rent protested. "The look in his eyes. I was watching him when he caught sight of you. I saw murder written there. I could not rest if I stayed here. You will not mind if I follow you as far as your house? I will take care not to be seen. You may think this is an extraordinary suggestion, but we have been friends for a considerable time, and you know that I would do anything for you." There was passion as well as sincerity in the speaker's tones, and a tinge of colour crept into Kate Charlock's cheeks. She raised a pair of dewy eyes to her companion's face. "You are more than kind," she murmured, "but I know your life is one long self-sacrifice. I know what penance it must be to you to spend a long evening among shallow, heartless people such as these, but your mission lies with people like us----" "But you do not identify yourself with them, surely?" Rent cried. "No, no, you are a broken-hearted, disappointed woman, striving to forget your unhappiness. I confess I am sorry to see you here to-night, but your future is in no danger. If we had only met before----" "Hush, hush," Kate Charlock said hastily. "You must not talk like that. I--I dare not listen to you. As you would not be faithless to your own vows, you would not have me faithless to mine. And so long as I can come here, and forget my miseries, so long as I can meet you, I feel that I am safe." Arnold Rent thrilled with a curious feeling as he listened to those impassioned words. It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of them, impossible to be anything but sorry for the beautiful, unhappy speaker. Her voice was dangerously low. There was an appeal in her eyes that set Rent fairly trembling. "I must come and see you," he said. "You will tell me the whole of your sad story. And now I must not detain you longer, seeing that your husband is waiting for you. But I am going to follow you home, all the same." Again came the look of gratitude in Kate Charlock's dark eyes. Then she turned away, as if afraid to trust herself further, and joined John Charlock in the garden. The pearly mists had rolled away. There was a deep, roseate flush in the eastern sky, but as yet the sun had not risen. A distant church clock struck the hour of three. John Charlock strode along with his hands in his pockets, his sombre eyes fixed upon the ground. The silence was growing intolerable. It seemed to Kate that she must speak, that she could not endure it longer. "How did you find out?" she asked. "I went to your room," Charlock explained. "I found your maid fast asleep, and I compelled her to tell me where you had gone. Did I make a fool of myself to-night?" "You were not polite," the woman murmured, "and----" "And all your friends are profoundly sorry for you. It must be a terrible thing for a woman of your temperament to be allied to a brute like myself. And to think that I should humiliate you by dragging you home like this! Your lot is indeed a hard one. Think how happy we might have been had I only been blessed with a more amiable temperament! Think how you have helped me in my work, and how unflinchingly you have spent my money!" Kate Charlock shivered and trembled, the tears gathered in her eyes, and the scarlet mouth was quivering. "What have I done?" she protested. "Why shouldn't I go out? If I had told you I was going, you would have been annoyed with me, you might even have forbidden me. And all this because you fancy that the boy's life is in danger. It seems singular that a hard, unfeeling man like you should make such a ridiculous fuss over a child. It was kinder on my part to slip away without saying anything. It isn't as if the poor little fellow is any worse than he was yesterday." Charlock clenched his hands behind his back. He was trembling from head to foot with an overmastering passion. A red mist floated before his eyes, and something seemed to oppress his breathing. It was only for a moment; then he was his grim self again. "The boy is better," he said, "far better. In fact, there is no cause for anxiety any more. I will never trouble you about him again. Why, you will know presently. Now you will oblige me by coming this way.... There, fond mother! Look at that!" The woman stood just for a moment, beginning dimly to comprehend. She placed her hand to her head. A moaning cry escaped her lips. With faltering steps she crossed the room and laid a long, slim hand on the child's face. For a while she neither spoke nor moved. No cry escaped her lips. Then, at length, she turned to face her husband. But he was gone. He had shown her enough, and more than enough. In the face of the tragedy any word of his would be superfluous. If she did not benefit by such a lesson as this, assuredly he could teach her nothing. She had nothing to learn. His heart was very sore and heavy within him as he walked out of the house and down the garden. Here was the garden of his dreams--the place he had planned in his mind when fame should come to him. It was here in this perfect spot that he and Kate were going to dwell for ever in their floral paradise. What a fool he had been! Yet that fair face and those pensive eyes would have deceived a more polished man of the world than John Charlock. He knew now for a certainty that he had given up everything for beauty devoid of heart. And one of the worst features was that the woman who cared nothing for him was wasting his money with a lavish hand. He ought to be happy and comfortable, instead of which he was up to his neck in debt and difficulty. He almost smiled as he looked at the ancient sundial which he had given so much for, merely to please his wife, but he regretted his folly now. The price of a portrait had gone to purchase that white marble. Charlock walked towards it in a sour frame of mind. He could have found it in his heart to destroy the whole thing. And yet, even in the moment of his trouble, he saw that the fountain was no longer playing in the carved basin round the base of the dial. Some dark object lay there. He fancied he could see a dress fluttering in the wind. He moved forward more quickly. At the same moment one of the gardeners came down the path. The man came in response to Charlock's call. Together they bent over the object in the basin. Charlock's face grew pale. The gardener shouted in open-mouthed dismay. They had the object out on the grass now--a black, wet, horrible thing, with pale, sodden face. "Hortense, my wife's maid!" Charlock whispered. "How did she get here? How could she have fallen in?" "Excuse me, sir," the gardener said huskily, "but it looks to me like foul play. A grown person would hardly drown in so little water. And look at that ugly bruise on her forehead. You may depend upon it, there has been mischief here." CHAPTER IV SACKCLOTH AND ASHES There was trouble and enough to spare in the house of John Charlock. A day or two had passed. The child was buried, and the blinds were drawn up once more. It was characteristic of Charlock that he held his grief sternly in hand and devoted his energy and attention in striving to get to the bottom of the mystery which surrounded the death of his wife's maid. The affair had created a sensation in the district. It was held to be so important that it had passed out of the hands of the local police into those of Scotland Yard. As to the girl's past, nothing could be discovered. No trace of her relatives could be found. And it could not be proved that she had been entangled in any love affair. Robbery was not the motive, either, for she had a well-filled purse in her pocket and wore a handsome gold watch. Yet, in some way, Charlock felt that the woman had been more or less of a dangerous character. He had never liked her. He distrusted her manner, which had always been a mixture of humility and veiled insolence. She was just the sort of creature who would have stooped to blackmail, and from this point of view Charlock was working. But a week had passed, and nothing had happened to throw light on the mystery. And, besides, Charlock had other things to occupy him. He had made up his mind to end the present intolerable state of things. He was waiting now in his studio for his wife. The paint brush hung idly in his hand and his thoughts were far away. This was John Charlock in one of his most dangerous moods. He turned upon his wife a pair of sullen, brooding eyes. "Well, what do you want?" he demanded. "I am sorry to intrude," Mrs. Charlock said coldly, "but we cannot go on like this." "That is true," Charlock said, a grim smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "If it is any consolation to you to know it, some change must be made. I have sat opposite to you for three days now, with hardly a word, but your thoughts have been to me like an open book. You have made up your mind what to do. Your programme is clear. Now that the child has gone, and there is no tie to bind us, you think it would be far better not to remain under this roof. Grossly extravagant though you are, you are shrewd enough, when it comes to a question of money to spend. You calculate, I suppose, that my income is about four thousand a year." "Really, you fill me with pain," Mrs. Charlock murmured. "Our Lady of Pain!" Charlock sneered. "Good heavens, do you want to pose after we have been married five years? Why, there is not a cranny in your soul that holds a dark place for me. I say you have reckoned it all out, and you are going to propose that I should share my income with you and give you a free hand to do as you like. This opportunity of martyrdom is not to be lost. Think how you would look wearing a crown! What a picturesque figure of a long-suffering woman you would make! And all your friends would pity the dear saint and condemn the malignant husband. But we need not go into that. Do you know that I am over six thousand pounds in debt? I have not a single commission on hand and hardly know where to turn for the money to pay the servants' wages. This is one of the tricks that fortune plays a man who gets his living as I do. Two of my commissions are in abeyance, and two other pictures may never be paid for, because the men who ordered them are dead. It sounds like a romance, but it is literally true. And of this load of debt that hangs about my neck like a millstone, less than two hundred of it belongs to me! Putting aside the expenses of the household, which have not been heavy, in the last two years you have pledged my credit for more than four thousand pounds. You said nothing to me. You ordered what you wanted. I have one bill here for five hundred pounds from a Bond Street milliner. You may call this only thoughtlessness, if you like, but I call it mean and dishonourable. And with all your beauty and sweetness and sympathy, you are little better than a criminal. And the joke of it is, it is I who have to pay the penalty, I who will incur the contempt of honest men, while you get off scot free. But there is going to be an end of all this. Before the week is out everything shall be disposed of." Kate Charlock looked up swiftly. There was something like a challenge in her eyes. The mantle of sweetness and resignation had fallen from her shoulders. "Do you mean to say you will give up this house?" she demanded. "Do you mean to tell me that you will sell the furniture? Surely there is no necessity." "I owe all that money," Charlock said doggedly, "and I am going to pay it off. I could easily whitewash myself as other men do, but that is not my way. To be candid with you, there is a bill of sale on the things here which covers their value, and, at any time, my creditors could come in and remove everything. Now, make the best of it. Revel in your extravagance while it lasts, for the time is getting short. And you shall have your opportunity to prove to your friends that you are the saint they take you to be. Everything I can lay my hands upon I shall realise for the benefit of my creditors. I will not rest till the last farthing is paid. It will be a question of rigid economy for a couple of years, and then I shall be able to look the world in the face once more. But in future there is going to be no London or Paris for you. We shall move into a three-roomed cottage, where we shall not even keep a servant. I will take the rough work off your hands, and in return you will do the housework and cooking. I intend to keep back no more than three pounds a week from my earnings until my debts are paid. That is all I am entitled to. This you can share with me, or, if you prefer it, you can have thirty shillings a week to live upon. If you take legal proceedings to obtain more, you will find that no Court will ask a man to give his wife more than half his income." Kate Charlock stood white and rigid, striving in vain to force a smile. "You are mad," she said hoarsely. "You could not do it. Think of your position! Think of what the world would say!" "Did I ever care what the world said?" Charlock cried. "What does it matter, so long as one's good name remains unsmirched? I have no more to say. I have no desire to argue the thing farther. I have already taken the cottage and furnished it. You have till the end of the week to make up your mind. You will please yourself whether you come with me or not, and I care little or nothing what your decision may be. Now, as I am busy, I shall be glad to be alone." Mrs. Charlock crept from the studio to her own room. There were real tears in her eyes. She was trembling from head to foot with a sense of humiliation and disappointment. She no longer doubted what her husband had said. She knew that when John Charlock had made up his mind to a thing it was as good as done. And he was doing this deliberately, in order to spite her, to wound her most susceptible feelings, because she had made such a terrible mistake the night of the boy's death. He would not understand her point of view. She could not induce him to believe that she had never dreamt the end was so near. No mother would have gone away had she known what was likely to happen. And as to Charlock's debts, it would have been easy to retrench and wipe them off by degrees. Kate Charlock wept as she looked about her. It was a beautiful house, luxuriously and artistically furnished. All Kate Charlock's friends envied her such a place. To give it up was an act of mean and cowardly vengeance. The thing would never have been thought of had the boy lived. It never occurred to the passionate, weeping woman that John Charlock valued his honour beyond his comfort, for there were scores of people in the smart set to which she belonged who never paid their debts at all. There were members of that charmed circle who boasted of this and were thought none the worse of. Here were the beautiful pictures, the magnificent furniture, the marvellous old silver which Kate Charlock had bought from time to time. Here was everything that made life sweet and enjoyable, and she was commanded to resign it all, and live alone in a draughty cottage with the man whom she regarded less as her husband than as her jailer. Two years' penal servitude at least! The thing was impossible, insupportable! She must tell somebody. She must confide in someone. But in whom? Among her frivolous friends, who would give her a measure of broad and genuine sympathy? She could only think of one person, and the colour crept into her cheeks as she recalled Arnold Rent. Then she became conscious that a servant had come into the room and stood watching her curiously. "Well?" she demanded. "What do you want? Don't you see that I want to be alone?" "It is Mr. Rent, madam," the servant said. "He is waiting in the drawing-room, and would like to see you." CHAPTER V "BUT YET A WOMAN" The thing was opportune, almost providential, or so Kate Charlock thought. She came down to the drawing-room, a subdued smile on her face. She seemed to fit into the room, to be part and parcel of it, like a pure jewel in a beautiful setting. And yet what a pity it was that no happiness went with all this. The thought flashed through Arnold Rent's mind as he shook hands with her. She had looked fair the last time they met, but now, clad in deepest black, she appeared even more attractive. Rent was not often at a loss for words, but he felt strangely awkward at the moment. "I hope I am not intruding," he murmured, "but I am going away to-morrow, and I could not leave without telling you how grieved I am at your loss. It must have been a great shock." The ready tears rose to Kate Charlock's eyes. Although she had troubled little about the boy when he was alive, she had persuaded herself that she had sustained a loss which no lapse of time would heal. "It was a terrible shock," she murmured, "so unexpected. What must you think of me when you remember how I was spending the evening at the very moment----" "But, of course, you did not know. How could you know?" Rent protested. "I have a much higher opinion of you than that. You must try to bear up. Remember that life has its compensations, even for the most miserable. You have a beautiful home. I never saw a more charming place." Mrs. Charlock hesitated a moment. "I think I had better tell you," she said slowly. "Even this home is not likely to last long. Whatever his faults may be, my husband is a genius, and everybody knows that geniuses are bad men of business. I am afraid I am not altogether blameless myself. I took it for granted that we had plenty of money. When my husband told me last night that he was hopelessly in debt I was positively staggered. He says he owes six thousand pounds, and he upbraided me bitterly for what he was pleased to call my extravagance. He accused me of being the author of all the mischief. But I am too much accustomed to his bitter tongue to take much heed of that. He always likes to see me well dressed. He has never complained like that before. I suppose he wanted to humiliate me. Indeed, he has been far worse since the child died. It is a wicked way to treat a mother. It is refined cruelty to taunt me with being away on pleasure when the boy was dying.... Oh, I don't see how I can endure the life which lies before me. So long as we are here, where there is plenty of room and we need not see much of one another, I might manage to rub along. But to go away to a tiny cottage----" "A cottage?" Rent echoed. "Is your husband mad?" "Sometimes I almost fear he is," Mrs. Charlock said in a whisper. "Since our loss he has been terrible. And now he has it in his mind to remove to a labourer's cottage and live on a few shillings a week until his debts are paid. Surely no sane man could behave in that way! I am ready to retrench, but when I think of the life that John has mapped out----" The speaker's voice broke with a pathetic catch. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. There was something in the speech that tickled Rent. His assumed sympathy was not so keen and clear as it had been. Charlock was a fool, a passionate believer in self-sacrifice. And, moreover, he was playing into his hands. But probably he was not moved by any nice considerations of honour and had adopted this course to humiliate the beautiful creature who sat opposite. "You are going to leave him?" he asked hopefully. "I am afraid so," Kate Charlock said. "Surely, I can make a living, though I have been brought up in a very useless fashion. If you would only see my husband, you might persuade him----" "Presently," Rent said. "Just now I am more concerned with yourself. Whatever happens, you will always have a friend in me. And you must not hesitate in the hour of need. Fortunately, I have the command of a considerable amount of money----" "Oh, I couldn't do that," Kate Charlock cried. "How good and kind you are! If I had only met you before I threw in my lot with John Charlock.... But what am I saying!" The woman rose to her feet and threw out her hands towards Rent. Her soft, pleading eyes were turned upon him. They were not wholly devoid of passion, and impulsively Rent stepped forward and took her hands in his. For the moment he had forgotten everything--his characteristic prudence, even. A sudden recklessness possessed him. What he was doing he hardly knew. Then, a moment later, he awoke to the fact that Kate Charlock was in his arms and his lips were pressed passionately to hers. Yet there was no sense of shame in Rent's mind, only a feeling of exultation and the knowledge that this woman cared for him. It was impossible to believe otherwise as he looked long and ardently into her eyes. Then, very slowly, he put her from him and walked towards the door. The game was his if he did not lose his head. "This must not happen again," he said. "I am shocked to find that I am as human and weak as the rest. And I have no blame for you, nothing but the deepest and sincerest pity. Oh, what a false and treacherous world! It is hateful to think that you must go on living your life here----" "Not here," Kate Charlock said quietly. "A lonely cottage, where I shall have to do my own work, and sit day by day opposite---- Oh, I cannot bear to think of it! I will go mad. I shall do him some mischief--of that I am certain." "No, no," Rent said sternly, "not if I can prevent it. I will see your husband now and try to argue with him. If you will show me the way----" Charlock looked up from his easel with a frown on his face as Rent entered. Then the frown changed to a bitter smile as he bade his visitor be seated. He waited for the latter to speak. "I have been talking to your wife," Rent began lamely. "She tells me that you are thinking of leaving." "Oh, did she? Perhaps she told you that I was up to my eyes in debt, and that I am not going to rest until every penny has been paid. That is why I am leaving and have furnished a small cottage in the neighbourhood. After all, I am not asking my wife very much. For the last three or four years she has had everything that the heart of woman could desire, and now I am asking her to pay the penalty. You can't eat your cake and have it, you know. Really, my good sir, as a man of the world, you ought to applaud my resolution." "So I do," Rent murmured. "But you will pardon me if I ask you a plain question. People say you are a hard man. They say that your wife's lot is not a happy one. I do hope and trust that in the step you are taking you have no desire to humiliate the lady----" "Stop!" Charlock cried. "You are going too far. I hear you are fearless and outspoken. I know you are a man of sense. And seeing you are candid, let me be candid in return. If I had married a plain, commonplace woman, would you take as much interest in her as you do in the lady whom I have the honour to call my wife? Ah, you are silent. I thought so. Yes, those are very pleading eyes. That is a very sad, sweet countenance. And doubtless I am a brute, because I can watch the tears fall from those eyes with a smile on my lips. Did it ever strike you that there may be another side to the question? Oh, I am not going to speak of it. You are quite free to form your own conclusions. And now you have come to persuade me to modify my scheme. Is not that so?" "I must confess that I had some such idea in my mind," Rent admitted. "It seems so hard upon your wife." "Oh, I know," Charlock said, the bitter sneer still on his face. "It is always the woman who pays. But I am busy now and have no time to discuss this matter. Come and see me again, say to-morrow evening, about eight o'clock. Then you shall have an answer to your question. You are a well-meaning man, but, like most of your class, you have no knowledge of the world and you fail to see the grim humour of the situation. It is rather amusing, don't you think, for a married man to be lectured by a bachelor? Some day, when your time comes----" Charlock turned to his easel and refused to say another word. With a feeling that he had been baffled, Rent left the house. He walked slowly across the fields, the vision of Kate Charlock's beautiful, pathetic face occupying his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He tingled as he thought of that passionate caress. The feeling of hope was drowned in an unreasoning exultation. And yet he ought not to see her again. He had his future to consider. That chapter must be closed for ever. But as he walked along, for the first time in his life, Arnold Rent regretted his aims and the career which he had mapped out for himself since his schooldays. CHAPTER VI A SCIENTIFIC DISCUSSION Much at the same moment two men were sitting on the deck of a yacht, drifting idly before a light breeze in the Solent. One was a young, keen-faced fellow, with quick, alert eyes and a restless expression, who was known as Malcolm Grey. He was regarded as a coming man in science, more especially in electricity. Already one or two discoveries of his bade fair to revolutionise hitherto accepted theories, and he was engaged upon a series of investigations which had for their end the promulgation of life and the alleviation of human suffering. Scientific folk were looking forward with interest to the next pronouncement of Malcolm Grey. His companion was a very different-looking man. He was short and inclined to be stout. The outline of his figure denoted great personal strength. His piercing black eyes had a humorous twinkle. A heavy dark moustache concealed the lines of his mouth. Dr. Tanza was a scientist, also, but his researches were more concerned with humanity, and particularly with the cause and prevention of crime. Tanza had devoted most of his life to this important subject, and, though some of his theories had been laughed at once, some of the best men in Europe were coming round to his way of thinking. Certainly he had been marvellously successful on two or three occasions and had operated upon the brains of criminals with the most amazing effect. As to the rest, he used his yacht and his great wealth for the sole purpose of developing his hobby. It was a small matter to him to
, and by whip or tongue grafting on all others. (See under article, Grafting.) Grafting into the sycamore is recommended by some. The scions are said to grow profusely, and to bear early and abundantly; but they are apt to be killed by cold winters. We do not recommend it. Almost everything does best budded or grafted into vigorous stocks of its own nature. Root-grafting, as it is termed,--that is, cutting up roots into pieces three or four inches long, and putting a scion into each--has been a matter of much discussion and diversity of opinion. It is certainly a means of most rapidly multiplying a given variety, and is therefore profitable to the nurseryman. For ourselves, we should prefer trees grafted just above, or at the ground, using the whole stock for one tree. We do not, however, undertake to settle this controverted point. Our minds are fixed against it. Others must do as they please. Propagation by seed is thought to be entirely uncertain, because, as is supposed, the seeds will not reproduce their own varieties. We consider this far from being an established fact. When grafts are put into large trees, high up from the ground, their fruit may be somewhat modified by the stock. There is also a slight tendency in the seeds of all grafts to return to the varieties from which they descended. But we believe the general rule to be, that the seeds of grafts, put in at the ground and standing alone, will generally produce the same varieties of fruit. The most prominent obstacle in the way of this reproduction is the presence of other varieties, which mix in the blossom. The planting of seeds from any mixed orchard can never settle this question, because they are never pure. Propagation by seeds, then, is an inconvenient method, only to be resorted to for purposes of acclimation. But it is so seldom we have a good bearing apple-tree so far removed from others as not to be affected by the blossoms, that we generally get from seeds a modification of varieties. Raising suitable stocks for grafting is done by planting seeds in drills thirty inches apart, and keeping clear of weeds until they are large enough to graft. The soil should be made very rich, to save time in their growth. Land where root-crops grew the previous year is the best. If kept clear of weeds, on rich, deep soil, from one to two thirds of them will be large enough for whip-grafting after the first year's growth. The pomice from the cider-mill is often planted. It is better to separate the seeds, and plant them with a seed-drill. They will then be in straight, narrow rows, allowing the cultivator and hoe to pass close by them, and thus save two thirds of the cost of cultivation. The question of keeping seeds dry or moist until planting is one of some importance. Most seeds are better for being kept slightly moist until planted; but with the apple it makes no difference. Keep apple-seeds dry and spread, as they are apt to heat. Freezing them is not of the slightest importance. If you plant pomice, put in a little lime or ashes to counteract the acid. For winter-grafting, pull the seedlings that are of suitable size, cut off the tops eight inches from the root, and pack in moist sand in a cellar that will not freeze. After grafting, tie them up in bunches, and pack in tight boxes of moist sand or sawdust. _Transplanting._--This is fully treated elsewhere in this work. We give under each fruit only what is peculiar to that species. In mild climates transplant in the fall, and in cold in the spring. Spring-planting must never be done until the soil has become dry enough to be made fine. A thoroughly-pulverized soil is the great essential of successful transplanting. Trees for spring-planting should always be taken up before the commencement of vegetation. But in very wet springs, this occurs before the ground becomes sufficiently dry; it is then best to take up the trees and heel them in, and keep them until the soil is suitable. The place for an apple-tree should be made larger than for any other tree, because its roots are wide-spreading, like its branches. The earth should be thrown out to the depth of twenty inches, and four or five feet square, for an ordinary-sized tree. This, however, will not do on a heavy clay subsoil, for it would form a basin to hold water and injure the tree. A ditch, as low as the bottom of the holes, should extend from tree to tree, and running out of the orchard, constructed in the usual method of drains, and, whatever be the subsoil, the trees will flourish. The usual compost to manure the trees in transplanting will be found elsewhere. In the bottom of these places for apple-trees should be thrown a plenty of cobblestones, with a few sods, and a little decaying wood and coarse manure. We know of nothing so good under an apple-tree as small stones; the tree will always be the larger and thriftier for it. This is, in a degree, beneficial to other fruits, but peculiarly so to the apple. _Size for transplanting._--Small trees usually do best. Large trees are often transplanted with the hope of having an abundance of fruit earlier. This usually defeats the object. The large trees will bear a little fruit earlier than the small ones; but the injury by removal is so much greater, that the small stocky trees come into full, regular bearing much the soonest. From five to eight feet high is often most convenient for field-orchard culture. But, wherever we can take care of them, it is better to set out smaller trees; they will do better for years. A suitable drain, extending through the orchard, under each row of trees, will make a good orchard on low, wet land. _Trimming at the time of transplanting._--Injured roots should be removed as in the general directions under Transplanting. But the idea of cutting off most of the top is a very serious error. When large trees are transplanted, which must necessarily lose many of their roots in removal, a corresponding portion of the top must be separated; but in no other case. The leaves are the lungs of the tree. How shall it have vitality if most of them are removed? It is like destroying one lung and half of the other, and then expect a man to be in vigorous health. We have often seen the most of two years' growth of trees lost by such reckless pruning. If the roots are tolerably whole and sound, leave the top so. A peach-tree needs to be trimmed much closer when transplanted, because it has so many more buds to throw out leaves. _Mulching._--This is quite as beneficial to apple-trees as to all transplanted trees. Well done, it preserves a regularity of moisture that almost insures the life of the tree. _Pruning._--The tops should be kept open and exposed to the sun, the cross limbs cut out, and everything removed that shows decided symptoms of decay. The productiveness of apple-trees depends very much upon pruning very sparingly and judiciously. There are two ways to keep an open top: one is, to allow many large limbs to grow, and cut out most of the small ones, thus leaving a large collection of bare poles without anything on which the fruit can grow;--the other method is to allow few limbs to grow large, and keep them well covered with small twigs, which always bear the fruit. The latter method will produce two or three times as much fruit as the former. The head of an apple-tree should be formed at a height that will allow a team to pass around under its branches. _Distance apart._--In a full-grown orchard, that is designed to cover the ground, the trees should be two rods (thirty-three feet) apart. When it is designed always to cultivate the ground, and land is plenty, set them fifty or sixty feet apart. You will be likely always to have fine fruit, and a crop on the land beside. Our recommendation to every one is to set out all orchards, of whatever fruit, so as to have them cover the whole ground when in maturity. Among apple-trees, dwarf pears, peaches, or quinces, may be set, which will be profitable before the apples need all the ground. _Bearing years._--A cultivator may have a part of his orchard bear one year, and the remainder the next, or he may have them all bear every year. There are two reasons why a tree bears full this year and will not bear the next. One is, it is allowed to have such a superabundance of fruit to mature this year, that it has no strength to mature fruit-buds for the next, and hence a barren year; the other reason is, a want of proper culture and the specific manures for the apple. Manure highly, keep off the insects, cultivate well, and do not allow too much to remain on the trees one season, and you will have a good crop every year. But if one would let his trees take the natural course, but wishes to change the bearing year of half of his orchard, he can accomplish it by removing the blossoms or young fruit from a part of his trees on the bearing year, and those trees having no fruit to mature will put forth an abundance of buds for fruit the following season; thus the fruit-season will be changed without lessening the productiveness. Go through a fruit-region in what is called the non-bearing seasons, and you will find some orchards and some trees very full of fruit. Trees of the same variety in another orchard near by will have very little fruit. This shows that the bearing season is a matter of mere habit, in all except what is determined by late frosts. This fact may be turned to great pecuniary value, by producing an abundance of apples every year. _Plowing and pasturing._--An apple-orchard should be often plowed, but not too deep among the roots. When not actually under the plow, it should be pastured, with fowls, calves, or sheep. Swine are recommended, as they will eat all the apples that fall prematurely, and with them the worms that made them fall. But we have often seen hogs, by their rooting and rubbing, kill the trees. Better to pick up the apples that fall too early, and give them to the swine. Turkeys and hens in an orchard will do much to destroy the various insects. They may be removed for a short time when they begin to peck the ripening fruit. Orchards pastured by sheep are said not to be infested with caterpillars. Sheep pastured and salted under apple-trees greatly enrich the soil, and in those elements peculiarly beneficial. _Enemies._--There are several of these that are quite destructive, when not properly guarded against. Two things are necessary, and, united and thoroughly performed, they afford a remedy or a preventive for most of the depredations of all insects: 1. Keep the trees well cleared of all rough, loose bark, which affords so many hiding-places for insects. 2. Wash the trunks and large limbs of the trees, twice between the 25th of May and the 15th of August, with a ley of wood-ashes or dissolved potash. Apple-trees will bear it strong enough to kill some of the finest cherries. We add another very effectual wash. Let cultivators choose between the two. Into two gallons of water put two quarts of soft-soap and one fourth pound of sulphur. If you add tobacco-juice, or any other very offensive article, it will be still better. _Apple-worm._--The insect that produces this worm lays its egg in the blossom-end of the young apple. That egg makes a worm that passes down about the core and ruins the fruit. Apples so affected will fall prematurely, and should be picked up and fed to swine. This done every day during their falling, which does not last a great while, will remedy the evil in two seasons. The worm that crawls from the fallen apple gets into crevices in rough bark, and spins his cocoon, in which he remains till the following spring. Bonfires, for a few evenings in the fore part of June, in an orchard infested with moths, will destroy vast numbers of them, before they have deposited their eggs. This can not be too strongly insisted upon. [Illustration: Apple-Worms. _a_ The young worm. _b_ The full-grown worm. _c_ The same magnified. _d_ Cocoon. _e_ Chrysalis. _f_ Perfect insect. _g_ The same magnified. _h i_ Passage of the worm in the fruit. _j_ Worm in the fruit. _k_ Place of egress.] _Bark-louse._--Dull white, oval scales, one tenth of an inch long, which sometimes appear on the stems of trees in vast numbers, may be destroyed by the wash recommended above. _Woolly aphis_--called in Europe by the misnomer, _American blight_--is very destructive across the water, but does not exist extensively on this side. It is supposed to exist, in this country, only where it has been introduced with imported trees. It appears as a white downy substance in the small forks of trees. This is composed of a large number of very minute woolly lice, which increase with wonderful rapidity. They are easily destroyed by washing with diluted sulphuric acid--three fourths of an ounce, by measure, from the druggist's--and seven and a half ounces of water, applied by a rag tied to the end of a stick. The operator must keep it from his clothes. After the first rain this is perfectly effectual. _Apple-tree borer._--This is a fleshy-white grub, found in the trunks of the trees. It enters at the surface of the ground where the bark is tender, and either girdles or thoroughly perforates the tree, causing its death. This is produced by a brown and white striped beetle about half an inch long. It does not go through its different stages annually, but remains a grub two or three years. It finally comes out in its winged state, early in June, flying in the night and laying its eggs. If the borers are already in the tree, they may be killed by cutting out, or by a steel wire thrust into their holes. But better prevent them. This can be done effectually by placing a small mound of ashes or lime around each tree early in the spring. On nursery-trees their attacks may be prevented by washing with a solution of potash--two pounds in eight quarts of water. As this is a good manure, as well as a great remedy for insects, it had better be used every season. [Illustration: Borer. Eggs. Beetle.] _Caterpillars_ are the product of a miller of a reddish-brown color, measuring about an inch and a half when flying. They deposit many eggs about the forks and near the extremities of young branches. These hatch in spring, in season for the young foliage, on which they feed voraciously. When neglected for two or three years, they often defoliate large trees. The habits of the caterpillar are favorable to their destruction. They weave their webs in forks of trees, and are always at home in rainy weather, and in the morning till nine o'clock. The remedy is to kill them. This is most effectually done by a sponge on the end of a pole, dipped in strong spirits of ammonia. Each one touched by it is instantly killed, and it is not difficult to reach them all. They may also be rubbed off with a brush or swab on the end of a pole, and burned. The principle is to get them off, web and all, and destroy them. This can always be effectually done, if attended to early in the season, and early in the morning. If any have been missed, and come out in insects to deposite more eggs, bonfires are most effectual. These should be made of shavings, in different parts of the orchard, and about the middle of June, earlier or later, according to latitude and season. The ends of twigs on which the eggs are laid in bunches of hundreds (see figure), may be cut off in the fall and destroyed. As this can be done with pruning-shears, it may be an economical method of destroying them. [Illustration: Caterpillar Eggs. Canker-worm Moths, Male and Female.] _Canker-worm._--The male moth has pale-ash colored wings, with a black dot, and is about an inch across. The female has no wings, is oval in form, dark-ash colored above, and gray underneath. These rise from the ground as early in spring as the frost is out. Some few rise in the fall. The females travel slowly up the body of the tree, while the winged males fly about to pair with them. Soon you may discover the eggs laid, always in rows, in forks of branches and among the young twigs. Every female lays nearly a hundred, and covers them over carefully with a transparent, waterproof glue. The eggs hatch from May 1st to June 1st, according to the latitude and season, and come out an ash-colored worm with a yellow stripe. They are very voracious, sometimes entirely stripping an orchard of its foliage. At the end of about four weeks they descend to the ground, to remain in a chrysalis state, about four inches below the surface, until the following spring. These worms are very destructive in some parts of New England, and have been already very annoying, as far west as Iowa. They will be likely to be transported all over the country on young trees. Many remedies are proposed, but to present them all is only to confuse. The best of anything is sufficient. We present two, for the benefit of two classes of persons. For all who have care enough to attend to it, the best remedy is to bind a handful of straw around the tree, two feet from the ground, tied on with one band, and the ends allowed to stand out from the tree. The females, who can not fly, but only ascend the trunk by crawling, will get up under the straw, and may easily be killed, by striking a covered mallet on the straw, and against the tree below the band. This should be attended to every day during the short season of their ascent, and all will be destroyed. Burn the straw about the last of May. But those who are too indolent or busy to do this often till their season is past, may melt India-rubber over a hot fire, and smear bandages of cloth or leather previously put tight around the tree. This will prevent the female moth from crossing and reaching the limbs. Tar is used, but India-rubber is better, as weather will not injure it as it will tar, so as to allow the moth to pass over. Put this on early and well, and let it remain till the last of May. But the first, the process of killing them, is far the best. _Gathering-and preserving._--All fruit, designed to be kept even for a few weeks, should be picked, and not shaken off, and laid, not dropped into a basket, and with equal care put into the barrels in which it is to be kept or transported. The barrel should be slightly shaken and filled entirely full. Let it stand open two days, to allow the fruit to sweat and throw off the excessive moisture. Then head up tight, and keep in a cool open shed until freezing weather; then keep where they can occasionally have good air, and in as cool a place as possible, without danger of freezing. Of all the methods of keeping apples on shelves, buried as potatoes, in various other articles, as chaff, sawdust, &c., this is, on the whole, the best and cheapest. Wrapping the apples in paper before putting them into the barrels, may be an improvement. Apples gathered just before hard frosts, or as they are beginning to ripen, but before many have fallen from the trees, and packed as above, and the barrels laid on their sides in a good dry, dark cellar, where air can occasionally be admitted, can be kept in perfection from six to eight weeks, after the ordinary time for their decay. Apples for cider, or other immediate use, may be shaken off upon mats or blankets spread under the tree for that purpose. They are not quite so valuable, but it saves times in gathering. _Varieties_ are exceedingly numerous and uncertain. Cole estimates that two millions of varieties have been produced in the single state of Maine, and that thousands of kinds may there be found superior to those generally recommended in the fruit-books. The minute description of fruits is not of the least use to one out of ten thousand cultivators. The best pomologists differ in the names and descriptions of the various fruits. Some varieties have as many as twenty-five synonyms. Of what use, then, is the minute description of the hundred and seventy-seven varieties of Cole's American fruit-book, or of the vast numbers described by Downing, Elliott, Barry, and Hooper? The best pear we saw in Illinois could not be identified in Elliott's fruit-book by a practical fruit-grower. We had in our orchard in Ohio a single apple-tree, producing a large yield of one of the very best apples we ever saw; it was called Natural Beauty. We could not learn from the fruit-books what it was. We took it to an amateur cultivator of thirty years' experience, and he could not identify it. This is a fair view of the condition of the nomenclature of fruits. The London experimental gardens are doing much to systemize it, and the most scientific growers are congratulating them on their success. But it never can be any better than it is now. Varieties will increase more and more rapidly, and synonyms will be multiplied annually, and the modification of varieties by stocks, manures, climates, and location, will render it more and more confused. We can depend only upon our nurserymen to collect all improved varieties, and where we do not see the bearing-trees for ourselves, trust the nurseryman's description of the general qualities of fruit. Seldom, indeed, will a cultivator buy fruit-trees, and set out his orchard, and master the descriptions in the fruit-books, and after his trees come into bearing, minutely try them by all the marks to see whether he has been cheated, and, if so, take up the trees and put out others, to go the same round again, perhaps with no better success. Hence, if possible, let planters get trees from a nursery so near at hand that they may know the quality of the fruit of the trees from which the grafts are taken, get the most popular in their vicinity, and always secure a few scions from any extraordinary apple they may chance to taste. It is well, also, to deal only with the most honorable nurserymen. Remember that varieties will not do alike well in all localities. Many need acclimation. Every extensive cultivator should keep seedlings growing, with a view to new varieties, or modifications of old ones, adapted to his locality. We did think of describing minutely a few of the best varieties, adapted to the different seasons of the year. But we can see no advantage it would be to the great mass of cultivators, for whom this book is designed. Those who wish to acquaint themselves with those descriptions will purchase some of the best fruit-books. We shall content ourselves with giving the lists, recommended by the best authority, for different sections, followed by a general description of the _qualities_ of a few of the best. Downing's lists are the following:-- APPLES FOR MIDDLE AND SOUTHERN PORTIONS OF THE EASTERN STATES, RIPENING IN SUCCESSION. Early Harvest. Vandevere of New York. Red Astrachan. Jonathan. Early Strawberry. Melon. Summer Rose. Yellow Bellflower. William's Favorite. Domine. Primate. American Golden Russet. American Summer Pearmain. Cogswell. Garden Royal. Peck's Pleasant. Jefferis. Wagener. Porter. Rhode Island Greening. Jersey Sweet. King of Tompkins County. Large Yellow Bough. Swaar. Baldwin. Gravenstein. Lady Apple. Maiden's Blush. Ladies' Sweet. Autumn Sweet Bough. Red Canada. Fall Pippin. Newtown Pippin. Mother. Boston Russet. Smokehouse. Northern Spy. Rambo. Wine Sap. Esopus Spitzenburg. APPLES FOR THE NORTH. Red Astrachan. Fameuse. Early Sweet Bough. Pomme Gris. Saps of Wine or Bell's Canada Reinette. Early. Yellow Bellflower. Golden Sweet. Golden Ball. William's Favorite. St. Lawrence. Porter. Jewett's Fine Red. Dutchess of Oldenburgh. Rhode Island Greening. Keswick Codlin. Baldwin. Hawthornden. Winthrop Greening. Gravenstein. Danvers Winter-Sweet. Mother. Ribston Pippin. Tolman Sweet. Roxberry Russet. APPLES FOR THE WESTERN STATES, Made up from the contributions of twenty different cultivators, from five Western states. Early Harvest. Domine. Carolina Red June. Swaar. Red Astrachan. Westfield Seek-no-further. American Summer Pearmain. Broadwell. Sweet June. Vandevere of New York, or Newtown Spitzenburg. Large Sweet Bough. Ortly, or White Bellflower. Summer Queen. Yellow Bellflower. Maiden's Blush. White Pippin. Keswick Codlin. American Golden Russet. Fall Wine. Herfordshire Pearmain. Rambo. White Pearmain. Belmont. Wine Sap. Fall Pippin. Rawle's Janet. Fameuse. Red Canada. Jonathan. Willow Twig. Tolman Sweet. APPLES FOR THE SOUTH AND SOUTHWEST. Early Harvest. Nickajack. Carolina Juice. Maverack's Sweet. Red Astrachan. Batchelor or King. Gravenstein. Buff. American Summer Pearmain. Shockley. Julian. Ben Davis. Mangum. Hall. Fall Pippin. Mallecarle. Maiden's Blush. Horse. Summer Rose. Bonum. Porter. Large Striped Pearmain. Rambo. Rawle's Janet. Large Early Bough. Disharoon. Fall Queen, or Ladies' Meigs. Favorite. Cullasaga. Oconee Greening. Camack's Sweet. Some varieties are included in all these lists, showing that the best cultivators regard some of our finest apples as adapted to all parts of the country. A careful comparison of Hooper's lists, as recommended by the best Western cultivators, whose names are there mentioned, will show that they name the same best varieties, with a few additions. We have carefully examined the varieties recommended by Ernst, by Kirtland and Elliott, by Barry, and by the national convention of fruit-growers, and find a general agreement on the main varieties. There are some differences of opinion, but they are minor. They have left out some of Downing's list, and added some, as a matter of course. All this only goes to show the established character of our main varieties. Out of all these, select a dozen of those named, in most of the lists, and you will have all that ever need be cultivated for profit. The best six might be still better. Yet, in your localities, you will find good ones not named in the books, and new ones will be constantly rising. Downing adds that "Newtown Pippin does not succeed generally at the West, yet in some locations they are very fine. Rhode Island Greening and Baldwin generally fail in many sections, while in others they are excellent." Now, it is contrary to all laws of vegetation and climate, that a given fruit should be good in one county and useless in the next, if they have an equal chance in each place. A suitable preparation of the soil, in supplying, in the specific manures, what it may lack, getting scions from equally healthy trees, and grafting upon healthy apple-seedling stocks--observing our principles of acclimation--_and not one of our best apples will fail, in any part of North America_. On a given parallel of latitude, a man may happen to plant a tree upon a fine calcareous soil, and it does well. Another chances to plant one upon a soil of a different character, and it does not succeed. It is then proclaimed that fruit succeeds well in one locality, and is useless in another near by and in the same latitude. The truth is, had the latter supplied calcareous substances to his deficient soil, as he might easily have done, in bones, plaster, lime, &c., the fruit would have done equally well in both cases. We should like to see this subject discussed, as it never has been in any work that has come under our observation. It would redeem many a section from a bad reputation for fruit-growing, and add much to the luxuries of thousands of our citizens. Apples can be successfully and profitably grown on every farm of arable land in North America. We present, in the following cuts, a few of our best apples, in their usual size and form. Some are contracted for the want of room on the page. We shall describe a few varieties, in our opinion the best of any grown in this country. These are all that need be cultivated, and may be adapted to all localities. We lay aside all technical terms in our description, which we give, not for purposes of identification, but to show their true value for profitable culture. The quality of fruit, habits of the tree, and time of maturity, are all that are necessary, for any practical purpose. NICKAJACK.--_Synonyms_--Wonder, Summerour. Origin, North Carolina. Tree vigorous, and a constant prolific bearer. Fruit large, skin yellowish, shaded land striped with crimson, and sprinkled with lightish dots. Yellowish flesh, fine subacid flavor. Tender, crisp, and juicy. Season, November to April. BALDWIN.--_Synonyms_--Late Baldwin, Woodpecker, Pecker, Steele's Red Winter. [Illustration] Stands at the head of all apples, in the Boston market. Fruit large and handsome. Tree hardy, and an abundant bearer. It is of the family of Esopus Spitzenburg. Yellowish white flesh, crisp and beautiful flavor, from a mingling of the acid and saccharine. Season, from November to March. On some rich western soils, it is disposed to bitter rot, which may be easily prevented, by application to the soil of lime and potash. CANADA RED.--_Synonyms_--Old Nonsuch, Richfield Nonsuch, Steele's Red Winter. An old fruit in Massachusetts and Connecticut. Tree not a great grower, but a profuse bearer. Good in Ohio, Michigan, and other Western states. Retains its fine flavor to the last. January to May. BELLFLOWER.--_Synonyms_--Yellow Bellflower, Lady Washington, Yellow Belle-fleur. [Illustration] Fruit very large, pale lemon yellow, with a blush in the sun. Subacid, juicy, crisp flesh. Tree vigorous, regular and excellent bearer. Season, November to March. Highly valuable. EARLY HARVEST.--_Synonyms_--Early French Reinette, Prince's Harvest, July Pippin, Yellow Harvest, Large White Juneating, Tart Bough. [Illustration] The best early apple. Bright straw color. Subacid, white, tender, juicy, and crisp. Equally good for cooking and the dessert. Season, the whole month of July in central New York; earlier south, and later north, as of all other varieties. RED ASTRACHAN.--Brought to England from Sweden in 1816. One of the most beautiful apples in the whole list. Fruit very large, and very smooth and fair. Color deep crimson, with a little greenish yellow in the shade and occasionally a little russet near the stalk. Flesh white and crisp, rich acid flavor. Gather as soon as nearly ripe, or it will become mealy. Abundant bearer. July and August. ESOPUS SPITZENBURG.--_Synonym_--True Spitzenburg. [Illustration] Large, fine flavored, lively red fruit. It is everywhere well known, as one of the very best apples ever cultivated, both for cooking and the desert. December to February, and often good even into April. A very great bearer. KING OF TOMPKINS COUNTY.--_Synonym_--King Apple. This is an abundant annual bearer. Skin rather yellowish, shaded with red and striped with crimson. Flesh rather coarse, but juicy and tender, with a very agreeable vinous aromatic flavor. One of the best. December and March. RHODE ISLAND GREENING.--_Synonyms_--Burlington Greening, Jersey Greening, Hampshire Greening. [Illustration] A universal favorite, everywhere known. Acid, lively, aromatic, excellent alike for the dessert and kitchen. Great bearer. November to March. It is said to fail on some rich alluvial soils at the West. Avoid root grafting, and apply the specific manures, and we will warrant it everywhere. BONUM.--_Synonym_--Magnum Bonum. From North Carolina. Fruit large, from light to dark red. Flesh yellow, subacid, rich, and delicious. Tree hardy, vigorous, and an early and abundant bearer. AMERICAN GOLDEN RUSSET.--_Synonyms_--Sheep Nose, Golden Russet, Bullock's Pippin, Little Pearmain. The English Golden Russet is a variety cultivated in this country, but much inferior to the above. The fruit is small, but melting juicy, with a very pleasant flavor. It is one of the most regular and abundant bearers known. Tree hardy and thrifty. October to January. We know from raising and using it at the West, that it is one of the very best. PIPPIN, FALL.--Confounded with Holland Pippin and several other varieties. [Illustration] A noble fruit, unsurpassed by any other autumn apple. Very large, equally adapted to table and kitchen. Fine yellow, when fully ripe, with a few dots. Flesh is white, mellow, and richly aromatic. October and December. A fair bearer, though not so great as many others. NEWTOWN PIPPIN.--_Synonyms_--Green Newtown Pippin, Green Winter Pippin, American Newtown Pippin, Petersburg Pippin. [Illustration] This is put down as the first of all apples. It commands the highest price, in the London market. It keeps long without the least shriveling or loss of flavor. Fruit medium size, olive green, with small gray specks. Flesh greenish white, juicy, crisp, and of an exceedingly delicious flavor. _The best keeping apple_, good for eating from December to May. The yellow pippin, is another variety nearly as good. PORTER.--A Massachusetts fruit, very fair; a very great bearer. Is a favorite in Boston. Deserves general cultivation. September and into October. SMOKEHOUSE.--_Synonyms_--Mill Creek Vandevere, English Vandevere. An old variety from Pennsylvania, where the original tree grew by a gentleman's smoke-house; hence its name. Skin yellow, shaded with crimson, sprinkled with large gray or brown dots. September to February. One of the very best for cooking. RAMBO.--_Synonyms_--Romanite, Bread and cheese apple, Seek-no-further. [Illustration] This is a great fall apple. Medium
you’ll try to settle all your own difficulties before turning to anybody else. Do you understand?” “Yes, father. Father, dear, I’m so happy. Does Granny know?” “Yes.” Maida heaved an ecstatic sigh. “I’m afraid I shan’t get to sleep to-night—just thinking of it.” But she did sleep and very hard—the best sleep she had known since her operation. And she dreamed that she opened a shop—a big shop this was—on the top of a huge white cloud. She dreamed that her customers were all little boy and girl angels with floating, golden curls and shining rainbow-colored wings. She dreamed that she sold nothing but cake. She used to cut generous slices from an angel-cake as big as the golden dome of the Boston state house. It was very delicious—all honey and jelly and ice cream on the inside, and all frosting, stuck with candies and nuts and fruits, on the outside. ---------------------- The people on Warrington Street were surprised to learn in the course of a few days that old Mrs. Murdock had sold out her business in the little corner store. For over a week, the little place was shut up. The school children, pouring into the street twice a day, had to go to Main Street for their candy and lead pencils. For a long time all the curtains were kept down. Something was going on inside, but what, could not be guessed from the outside. Wagons deposited all kinds of things at the door, rolls of paper, tins of paint, furniture, big wooden boxes whose contents nobody could guess. Every day brought more and more workmen and the more there were, the harder they worked. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, all the work stopped. The next morning when the neighborhood waked up, a freshly-painted sign had taken the place over the door of the dingy old black and white one. The lettering was gilt, the background a skyey blue. It read: MAIDA’S LITTLE SHOP CHAPTER II: CLEANING UP The next two weeks were the busiest Maida ever knew. In the first place she must see Mrs. Murdock and talk things over. In the second place, she must examine all the stock that Mrs. Murdock left. In the third place, she must order new stock from the wholesale places. And in the fourth place, the rooms must be made ready for her and Granny to live in. It was hard work, but it was great fun. First, Mrs. Murdock called, at Billy’s request, at his rooms on Mount Vernon Street. Granny and Maida were there to meet her. Mrs. Murdock was a tall, thin, erect old lady. Her bright black eyes were piercing enough, but it seemed to Maida that the round-glassed spectacles, through which she examined them all, were even more so. “I’ve made out a list of things for the shop that I’m all out of,” she began briskly. “You’ll know what the rest is from what’s left on the shelves. Now about buying—there’s a wagon comes round once a month and I’ve told them to keep right on a-coming even though I ain’t there. They’ll sell you your candy, pickles, pickled limes and all sich stuff. You’ll have to buy your toys in Boston—your paper, pens, pencils, rubbers and the like also, but not at the same places where you git the toys. I’ve put all the addresses down on the list. I don’t see how you can make any mistakes.” “How long will it take you to get out of the shop?” Billy asked. Maida knew that Billy enjoyed Mrs. Murdock, for often, when he looked at that lady, his eyes “skrinkled up,” although there was not a smile on his face. “A week is all I need,” Mrs. Murdock declared. “If it worn’t for other folks who are keeping me waiting, I’d have that hull place fixed as clean as a whistle in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Now I’ll put a price on everything, so’s you won’t be bothered what to charge. There’s some things I don’t ever git, because folks buy too many of them and it’s sich an everlasting bother keeping them in stock. But you’re young and spry, and maybe you won’t mind jumping about for every Tom, Dick and Harry. But, remember,” she added in parting, “don’t git expensive things. Folks in that neighborhood ain’t got no money to fool away. Git as many things as you can for a cent a-piece. Git some for five and less for ten and nothing for over a quarter. But you must allus callulate to buy some things to lose money on. I mean the truck you put in the window jess to make folks look in. It gits dusty and fly-specked before you know it and there’s an end on it. I allus send them to the Home for Little Wanderers at Christmas time.” Early one morning, a week later, a party of three—Granny Flynn, Billy and Maida—walked up Beacon Street and across the common to the subway. Maida had never walked so far in her life. But her father had told her that if she wanted to keep the shop, she must give up her carriage and her automobile. That was not hard. She was willing to give up anything that she owned for the little shop. They left the car at City Square in Charlestown and walked the rest of the way. It was Saturday, a brilliant morning in a beautiful autumn. All the children in the neighborhood were out playing. Maida looked at each one of them as she passed. They seemed as wonderful as fairy beings to her—for would they not all be her customers soon? And yet, such was her excitement, she could not remember one face after she had passed it. A single picture remained in her mind—a picture of a little girl standing alone in the middle of the court. Black-haired, black-eyed, a vivid spot of color in a scarlet cape and a scarlet hat, the child was scattering bread-crumbs to a flock of pigeons. The pigeons did not seem afraid of her. They flew close to her feet. One even alighted on her shoulder. “It makes me think of St. Mark’s in Venice,” Maida said to Billy. But, little girl—scarlet cape—flocks of doves—St. Mark’s, all went out of her head entirely when she unlocked the door of the little shop. “Oh, oh, oh!” she cried, “how nice and clean it looks!” The shop seemed even larger than she remembered it. The confused, dusty, cluttery look had gone. But with its dull paint and its blackened ceiling, it still seemed dark and dingy. Maida ran behind the counter, peeped into the show cases, poked her head into the window, drew out the drawers that lined the wall, pulled covers from the boxes on the shelves. There is no knowing where her investigations would have ended if Billy had not said: “See here, Miss Curiosity, we can’t put in the whole morning on the shop. This is a preliminary tour of investigation. Come and see the rest of it. This way to the living-room!” The living-room led from the shop—a big square room, empty now, of course. Maida limped over to the window. “Oh, oh, oh!” she cried; “did you ever see such a darling little yard?” “It surely is little,” Billy agreed, “not much bigger than a pocket handkerchief, is it?” And yet, scrap of a place as the yard was, it had an air of completeness, a pretty quaintness. Two tiny brick walks curved from the door to the gate. On either side of these spread out microscopic flower-beds, crowded tight with plants. Late-blooming dahlias and asters made spots of starry color in the green. A vine, running over the door to the second story, waved like a crimson banner dropped from the window. “The old lady must have been fond of flowers,” Billy Potter said. He squinted his near-sighted blue eyes and studied the bunches of green. “Syringa bush in one corner. Lilac bush in the other. Nasturtiums at the edges. Morning-glories running up the fence. Sunflowers in between. My, won’t it be fun to see them all racing up in the spring!” Maida jumped up and down at the thought. She could not jump like other children. Indeed, this was the first time that she had ever tried. It was as if her feet were like flat-irons. Granny Flynn turned quickly away and Billy bit his lips. “I know just how I’m going to fix this room up for you, Petronilla,” Billy said, nodding his head mysteriously. “Now let’s go into the kitchen.” The kitchen led from the living-room. Billy exclaimed when he saw it and Maida shook her hands, but it was Granny who actually screamed with delight. Much bigger than the living-room, it had four windows with sunshine pouring in through every one of them. But it was not the four windows nor yet the sunshine that made the sensation—it was the stone floor. “We’ll put a carpet on it if you think it’s too cold, Granny,” Billy suggested immediately. “Oh, lave it be, Misther Billy,” Granny begged. “’Tis loike me ould home in Oireland. Sure ’tis homesick Oi am this very minut looking at ut.” “All right,” Billy agreed cheerfully. “What you say goes, Granny. Now upstairs to the sleeping-rooms.” To get to the second floor they climbed a little stairway not more than three feet wide, with steps very high, most of them triangular in shape because the stairway had to turn so often. And upstairs—after they got there—consisted of three rooms, two big and square and light, and one smaller and darker. “The small room is to be made into a bathroom,” Billy explained, “and these two big ones are to be your bedrooms. Which one will you have, Maida?” Maida examined both rooms carefully. “Well, I don’t care for myself which I have,” she said. “But it does seem as if there were a teeny-weeny more sun in this one. I think Granny ought to have it, for she loves the sunshine on her old bones. You know, Billy, Granny and I have the greatest fun about our bones. Hers are all wrong because they’re so old, and mine are all wrong because they’re so young.” “All right,” Billy agreed. “Sunshiny one for Granny, shady one for you. That’s settled! I hope you realize, Miss Maida, Elizabeth, Fairfax, Petronilla, Pinkwink, Posie Westabrook what perfectly bully rooms these are! They’re as old as Noah.” “I’m glad they’re old,” Maida said. “But of course they must be. This house was here when Dr. Pierce was a little boy. And that must have been a long, long, long time ago.” “Just look at the floors,” Billy went on admiringly. “See how uneven they are. You’ll have to walk straight here, Petronilla, to keep from falling down. That old wooden wainscoting is simply charming. That’s a nice old fireplace too. And these old doors are perfect.” Granny Flynn was working the latch of one of the old doors with her wrinkled hands. “Manny’s the toime Oi’ve snibbed a latch loike that in Oireland,” she said, and she smiled so hard that her very wrinkles seemed to twinkle. “And look at the windows, Granny,” Billy said. “Sixteen panes of glass each. I hope you’ll make Petronilla wash them.” “Oh, Granny, will you let me wash the windows?” Maida asked ecstatically. “When you’re grand and sthrong,” Granny promised. “I know just how I’ll furnish the room,” Billy said half to himself. “Oh, Billy, tell me!” Maida begged. “Can’t,” he protested mischievously. “You’ve got to wait till it’s all finished before you see hide or hair of it.” “I know I’ll die of curiosity,” Maida protested. “But then of course I shall be very busy with my own business.” “Ah, yes,” Billy replied. “Now that you’ve embarked on a mercantile career, Miss Westabrook, I think you’ll find that you’ll have less and less time for the decorative side of life.” Billy spoke so seriously that most little girls would have been awed by his manner. But Maida recognized the tone that he always employed when he was joking her. Beside, his eyes were all “skrinkled up.” She did not quite understand what the joke was, but she smiled back at him. “Now can we look at the things downstairs?” she pleaded. “Yes,” Billy assented. “To-day is a very important day. Behind locked doors and sealed windows, we’re going to take account of stock.” Granny Flynn remained in the bedrooms to make all kinds of mysterious measurements, to open and shut doors, to examine closets, to try window-sashes, even to poke her head up the chimney. Downstairs, Billy and Maida opened boxes and boxes and boxes and drawers and drawers and drawers. Every one of these had been carefully gone over by the conscientious Mrs. Murdock. Two boxes bulged with toys, too broken or soiled to be of any use. These they threw into the ash-barrel at once. What was left they dumped on the floor. Maida and Billy sat down beside the heap and examined the things, one by one. Maida had never seen such toys in her life—so cheap and yet so amusing. It was hard work to keep to business with such enchanting temptation to play all about them. Billy insisted on spinning every top—he got five going at once—on blowing every balloon—he produced such dreadful wails of agony that Granny came running downstairs in great alarm—on jumping with every jump-rope—the short ones tripped him up and once he sprawled headlong—on playing jackstones—Maida beat him easily at this—on playing marbles—with a piece of crayon he drew a ring on the floor—on looking through all the books—he declared that he was going to buy some little penny-pamphlet fairy-tales as soon as he could save the money. But in spite of all this fooling, they really accomplished a great deal. They found very few eatables—candy, fruit, or the like. Mrs. Murdock had wisely sold out this perishable stock. One glass jar, however, was crammed full of what Billy recognized to be “bulls-eyes”—round lumps of candy as big as plums and as hard as stones. Billy said that he loved bulls-eyes better than terrapin or broiled live lobster, that he had not tasted one since he was “half-past ten.” For the rest of the day, one of his cheeks stuck out as if he had the toothache. They came across all kinds of odds and ends—lead pencils, blank-books, an old slate pencil wrapped in gold paper which Billy insisted on using to draw pictures on a slate—he made this squeak so that Maida clapped her hands over her ears. They found single pieces from sets of miniature furniture, a great many dolls, rag-dolls, china dolls, celluloid dolls, the latest bisque beauties, and two old-fashioned waxen darlings whose features had all run together from being left in too great a heat. They went through all these things, sorting them into heaps which they afterwards placed in boxes. At noon, Billy went out and bought lunch. Still squatting on the floor, the three of them ate sandwiches and drank milk. Granny said that Maida had never eaten so much at one meal. All this happened on Saturday. Maida did not see the little shop again until it was finished. By Monday the place was as busy as a beehive. Men were putting in a furnace, putting in a telephone, putting in a bathroom, whitening the plaster, painting the woodwork. Finally came two days of waiting for the paint to dry. “Will it ever, _ever_, EVER dry?” Maida used to ask Billy in the most despairing of voices. By Thursday, the rooms were ready for their second coat of paint. “Oh, Billy, do tell me what color it is—I can’t wait to see it,” Maida begged. But, “Sky-blue-pink” was all she got from Billy. Saturday the furniture came. In the meantime, Maida had been going to all the principal wholesale places in Boston picking out new stock. Granny Flynn accompanied her or stayed at home, according to the way she felt, but Billy never missed a trip. Maida enjoyed this tremendously, although often she had to go to bed before dark. She said it was the responsibility that tired her. To Maida, these big wholesale places seemed like the storehouses of Santa Claus. In reality they were great halls, lined with parallel rows of counters. The counters were covered with boxes and the boxes were filled with toys. Along the aisles between the counters moved crowds of buyers, busily examining the display. It was particularly hard for Maida to choose, because she was limited by price. She kept recalling Mrs. Murdock’s advice, “Get as many things as you can for a cent a-piece.” The expensive toys tempted her, but although she often stopped and looked them wistfully over, she always ended by going to the cheaper counters. “You ought to be thinking how you’ll decorate the windows for your first day’s sale,” Billy advised her. “You must make it look as tempting as possible. I think, myself, it’s always a good plan to display the toys that go with the season.” Maida thought of this a great deal after she went to bed at night. By the end of the week, she could see in imagination just how her windows were going to look. Saturday night, Billy told her that everything was ready, that she should see the completed house Monday morning. It seemed to Maida that the Sunday coming in between was the longest day that she had ever known. When she unlocked the door to the shop, the next morning, she let out a little squeal of joy. “Oh, I would never know it,” she declared. “How much bigger it looks, and lighter and prettier!” Indeed, you would never have known the place yourself. The ceiling had been whitened. The faded drab woodwork had been painted white. The walls had been colored a beautiful soft yellow. Back of the counter a series of shelves, glassed in by sliding doors, ran the whole length of the wall and nearly to the ceiling. Behind the show case stood a comfortable, cushioned swivel-chair. “The stuff you’ve been buying, Petronilla,” Billy said, pointing to a big pile of boxes in the corner. “Now, while Granny and I are putting some last touches to the rooms upstairs, you might be arranging the window.” “That’s just what I planned to do,” Maida said, bubbling with importance. “But you promise not to interrupt me till it’s all done.” “All right,” Billy agreed, smiling peculiarly. He continued to smile as he opened the boxes. It did not occur to Maida to ask them what they were going to do upstairs. It did not occur to her even to go up there. From time to time, she heard Granny and Billy laughing. “One of Billy’s jokes,” she said to herself. Once she thought she heard the chirp of a bird, but she would not leave her work to find out what it was. When the twelve o’clock whistle blew, she called to Granny and to Billy to come to see the results of her morning’s labor. “I say!” Billy emitted a long loud whistle. “Oh, do you like it?” Maida asked anxiously. “It’s a grand piece of work, Petronilla,” Billy said heartily. The window certainly struck the key-note of the season. Tops of all sizes and colors were arranged in pretty patterns in the middle. Marbles of all kinds from the ten-for-a-cent “peeweezers” up to the most beautiful, colored “agates” were displayed at the sides. Jump-ropes of variegated colors with handles, brilliantly painted, were festooned at the back. One of the window shelves had been furnished like a tiny room. A whole family of dolls sat about on the tiny sofas and chairs. On the other shelf lay neat piles of blank-books and paper-blocks, with files of pens, pencils, and rubbers arranged in a decorative pattern surrounding them all. In the show case, fresh candies had been laid out carefully on saucers and platters of glass. On the counter was a big, flowered bowl. “To-morrow, I’m going to fill that bowl with asters,” Maida explained. “OI’m sure the choild has done foine,” Granny Flynn said, “Oi cudn’t have done betther mesilf.” “Now come and look at your rooms, Petronilla,” Billy begged, his eyes dancing. Maida opened the door leading into the living-room. Then she squealed her delight, not once, but continuously, like a very happy little pig. The room was as changed as if some good fairy had waved a magic wand there. All the woodwork had turned a glistening white. The wall paper blossomed with garlands of red roses, tied with snoods of red ribbons. At each of the three windows waved sash curtains of a snowy muslin. At each of the three sashes hung a golden cage with a pair of golden canaries in it. Along each of the three sills marched pots of brilliantly-blooming scarlet geraniums. A fire spluttered and sparkled in the fireplace, and drawn up in front of it was a big easy chair for Granny, and a small easy one for Maida. Familiar things lay about, too. In one corner gleamed the cheerful face of the tall old clock which marked the hours with so silvery a voice and the moon-changes by such pretty pictures. In another corner shone the polished surface of a spidery-legged little spinet. Maida loved both these things almost as much as if they had been human beings, for her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother had loved them before her. Needed things caught her eyes everywhere. Here was a little bookcase with all her favorite books. There was a desk, stocked with business-like-looking blank-books. Even the familiar table with Granny’s “Book of Saints” stood near the easy chair. Granny’s spectacles lay on an open page, familiarly marking the place. In the center of the room stood a table set for three. “It’s just the dearest place,” Maida said. “Billy, you’ve remembered everything. I thought I heard a bird peep once, but I was too busy to think about it.” “Want to go upstairs?” Billy asked. “I’d forgotten all about bedrooms.” Maida flew up the stairs as if she had never known a crutch. The two bedrooms were very simple, all white—woodwork, furniture, beds, even the fur rugs on the floor. But they were wonderfully gay from the beautiful paper that Billy had selected. In Granny’s room, the walls imitated a flowered chintz. But in Maida’s room every panel was different. And they all helped to tell the same happy story of a day’s hunting in the time when men wore long feathered hats on their curls, when ladies dressed like pictures and all carried falcons on their wrists. “Granny, Granny,” Maida called down to them, “Did you ever see any place in all your life that felt so _homey_?” “I guess it will do,” Billy said in an undertone. That night, for the first time, Maida slept in the room over the little shop. CHAPTER III: THE FIRST DAY If you had gone into the little shop the next day, you would have seen a very pretty picture. First of all, I think you would have noticed the little girl who sat behind the counter—a little girl in a simple blue-serge dress and a fresh white “tire”—a little girl with shining excited eyes and masses of pale-gold hair, clinging in tendrilly rings about a thin, heart-shaped face—a little girl who kept saying as she turned round and round in her swivel-chair: “Oh, Granny, do you think _anybody’s_ going to buy _anything_ to-day?” Next I think you would have noticed an old woman who kept coming to the living-room door—an old woman in a black gown and a white apron so stiffly starched that it rattled when it touched anything—an old woman with twinkling blue eyes and hair, enclosing, as in a silver frame, a little carved nut of a face—an old woman who kept soothing the little girl with a cheery: “Now joost you be patient, my lamb, sure somebody’ll be here soon.” The shop was unchanged since yesterday, except for a big bowl of asters, red, white and blue. “Three cheers for the red, white and blue,” Maida sang when she arranged them. She had been singing at intervals ever since. Suddenly the latch slipped. The bell rang. Maida jumped. Then she sat so still in her high chair that you would have thought she had turned to stone. But her eyes, glued to the moving door, had a look as if she did not know what to expect. The door swung wide. A young man entered. It was Billy Potter. He walked over to the show case, his hat in his hand. And all the time he looked Maida straight in the eye. But you would have thought he had never seen her before. “Please, mum,” he asked humbly, “do you sell fairy-tales here?” Maida saw at once that it was one of Billy’s games. She had to bite her lips to keep from laughing. “Yes,” she said, when she had made her mouth quite firm. “How much do you want to pay for them?” “Not more than a penny each, mum,” he replied. Maida took out of a drawer the pamphlet-tales that Billy had liked so much. “Are these what you want?” she asked. But before he could answer, she added in a condescending tone, “Do you know how to read, little boy?” Billy’s face twitched suddenly and his eyes “skrinkled up.” Maida saw with a mischievous delight that he, in his turn, was trying to keep the laughter back. “Yes, mum,” he said, making his face quite serious again. “My teacher says I’m the best reader in the room.” He took up the little books and looked them over. “‘The Three Boars’—no,‘Bears,’” he corrected himself. “‘Puss-in-Boats’—no, ‘Boots’; ‘Jack-and-the-Bean-Scalp’—no,‘Stalk’; ‘Jack the Joint-Cooler’—no, ‘Giant-Killer’; ‘Cinderella,’ ‘Bluebird’—no, ‘Bluebeard’; ‘Little Toody-Goo-Shoes’—no, ‘Little Goody-Two-Shoes’; ‘Tom Thumb,’ ‘The Sweeping Beauty,’—no, ‘The Sleeping Beauty,’ ‘The Babes in the Wood.’ I guess I’ll take these ten, mum.” He felt in all his pockets, one after another. After a long time, he brought out some pennies, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” he counted slowly. He took the books, turned and left the shop. Maida watched him in astonishment. Was he really going for good? In a few minutes the little bell tinkled a second time and there stood Billy again. “Good morning, Petronilla,” he said pleasantly, as if he had not seen her before that morning, “How’s business?” “Fine!” Maida responded promptly. “I’ve just sold ten fairy books to the funniest little boy you ever saw.” “My stars and garters!” Billy exclaimed. “Business surely is brisk. Keep that up and you can afford to have a cat. I’ve brought you something.” He opened the bag he carried and took a box out from it. “Hold out your two hands,—it’s heavy,” he warned. In spite of his preparation, the box nearly fell to the floor—it was so much heavier than Maida expected. “What can be in it?” she cried excitedly. She pulled the cover off—then murmured a little “oh!” of delight. The box was full—cram-jam full—of pennies; pennies so new that they looked like gold—pennies so many that they looked like a fortune. “Gracious, what pretty money!” Maida exclaimed. “There must be a million here.” “Five hundred,” Billy corrected her. He put some tiny cylindrical rolls of paper on the counter. Maida handled them curiously—they, too, were heavy. “Open them,” Billy commanded. Maida pulled the papers away from the tops. Bright new dimes fell out of one, bright new nickels came from the other. “Oh, I’m so glad to have nice clean money,” Maida said in a satisfied tone. She emptied the money drawer and filled its pockets with the shining coins. “It was very kind of you to think of it, Billy. I know it will please the children.” The thought made her eyes sparkle. The bell rang again. Billy went out to talk with Granny, leaving Maida alone to cope with her first strange customer. Again her heart began to jump into her throat. Her mouth felt dry on the inside. She watched the door, fascinated. On the threshold two little girls were standing. They were exactly of the same size, they were dressed in exactly the same way, their faces were as alike as two peas in a pod. Maida saw at once that they were twins. They had little round, chubby bodies, bulging out of red sweaters; little round, chubby faces, emerging from tall, peaky, red-worsted caps. They had big round eyes as expressionless as glass beads and big round golden curls as stiff as candles. They stared so hard at Maida that she began to wonder nervously if her face were dirty. “Come in, little girls,” she called. The little girls pattered over to the show case and looked in. But their big round eyes, instead of examining the candy, kept peering up through the glass top at Maida. And Maida kept peering down through it at them. “I want to buy some candy for a cent,” one of them whispered in a timid little voice. “I want to buy some candy for a cent, too,” the other whispered in a voice, even more timid. “All the cent candy is in this case,” Maida explained, smiling. “What are you going to have, Dorothy?” one of them asked. “I don’t know. What are you going to have, Mabel?” the other answered. They discussed everything in the one-cent case. Always they talked in whispers. And they continued to look more often at Maida than at the candy. “Have you anything two-for-a-cent?” Mabel whispered finally. “Oh, yes—all the candy in this corner.” The two little girls studied the corner Maida indicated. For two or three moments they whispered together. At one point, it looked as if they would each buy a long stick of peppermint, at another, a paper of lozenges. But they changed their minds a great many times. And in the end, Dorothy bought two large pickles and Mabel bought two large chocolates. Maida saw them swapping their purchases as they went out. The two pennies which the twins handed her were still moist from the hot little hands that had held them. Maida dropped them into an empty pocket in the money drawer. She felt as if she wanted to keep her first earnings forever. It seemed to her that she had never seen such _precious-looking_ money. The gold eagles which her father had given her at Christmas and on her birthday did not seem half so valuable. But she did not have much time to think of all this. The bell rang again. This time it was a boy—a big fellow of about fourteen, she guessed, an untidy-looking boy with large, intent black eyes. A mass of black hair, which surely had not been combed, fell about a face that as certainly had not been washed that morning. “Give me one of those blue tops in the window,” he said gruffly. He did not add these words but his manner seemed to say, “And be quick about it!” He threw his money down on the counter so hard that one of the pennies spun off into a corner. He did not offer to pick the penny up. He did not even apologize. And he looked very carefully at the top Maida handed him as if he expected her to cheat him. Then he walked out. It was getting towards school-time. Children seemed to spring up everywhere as if they grew out of the ground. The quiet streets began to ring with the cries of boys playing tag, leap frog and prisoners’ base. The little girls, much more quiet, squatted in groups on doorsteps or walked slowly up and down, arm-in-arm. But Maida had little time to watch this picture. The bell was ringing every minute now. Once there were six children in the little shop together. “Do you need any help?” Granny called. “No, Granny, not yet,” Maida answered cheerfully. But just the same, she did have to hurry. The children asked her for all kinds of things and sometimes she could not remember where she had put them. When in answer to the school bell the long lines began to form at the big doorways, two round red spots were glowing in Maida’s cheeks. She drew an involuntary sigh of relief when she realized that she was going to have a chance to rest. But first she counted the money she had taken in. Thirty-seven cents! It seemed a great deal to her. For an hour or more, nobody entered the shop. Billy left in a little while for Boston. Granny, crooning an old Irish song, busied herself upstairs in her bedroom. Maida sat back in her chair, dreaming happily of her work. Suddenly the bell tinkled, rousing her with a start. It seemed a long time after the bell rang before the door opened. But at last Maida saw the reason of the delay. The little boy who stood on the threshold was lame. Maida would have known that he was sick even if she had not seen the crutches that held him up, or the iron cage that confined one leg. His face was as colorless as if it had been made of melted wax. His forehead was lined almost as if he were old. A tired expression in his eyes showed that he did not sleep like other children. He must often suffer, too—his mouth had a drawn look that Maida knew well. The little boy moved slowly over to the counter. It could hardly be said that he walked. He seemed to swing between his crutches exactly as a pendulum swings in a tall clock. Perhaps he saw the sympathy that ran from Maida’s warm heart to her pale face, for before he spoke he smiled. And when he smiled you could not possibly think of him as sick or sad. The corners of his mouth and the corners of his eyes seemed to fly up together. It made your spirits leap just to look at him. “I’d like a sheet of red tissue paper,” he said briskly. Maida’s happy expression changed. It was the first time that anybody had asked her for anything which she did not have. “I’m afraid I haven’t any,” she said regretfully. The boy looked disappointed. He started to go away. Then he turned hopefully. “Mrs. Murdock always kept her tissue paper in that drawer there,” he said, pointing. “Oh, yes, I do remember,” Maida exclaimed. She recalled now a few sheets of tissue paper that she had left there, not knowing what to do with them. She pulled the drawer open. There they were, neatly folded, as she had left them. “What did Mrs. Murdock charge for it?” she inquired. “A cent a sheet.” Maida thought busily. “I’m selling out all the old stock,” she said. “You can have all that’s left for a cent if you want it.” “Sure!” the boy exclaimed. “
angrily. And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the gas, the oblong card, though not the word “Apartments” printed on it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned fanlight above the front door. Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately. A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting’s pale face. She was not used to be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly upset, was the mildest of men. She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there. But her hands trembled—they trembled with excitement, with self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was dreadful—dreadful to have to worry about a penny! But they had come to the point when one has to worry about pennies. Strange that her husband didn’t realise that. Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by now, a little bit ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark, and she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord. But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was, irritated her, and made her long to get away from him. Opening the door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and—shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably by the now brightly burning fire, with the _Evening Standard_ spread out before him—she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her hands against her temples. Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so—so broken as now. Where was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age which gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter service together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation. But Mrs. Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple things any lodger she might get would require, but that was all. Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For it had been her doing. Bunting had been like butter in her hands. Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place. There they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still pretty well; and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and that had meant ruin for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of other luckless people. Then had followed a business experiment which had proved even more disastrous, and which had left them in debt—in debt to an extent they could never hope to repay, to a good-natured former employer. After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have done, perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up their minds to make one last effort, and they had taken over, with the trifle of money that remained to them, the lease of this house in the Marylebone Road. In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered, impersonal, and, above all, financially easy existence which is the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, they had both lived in houses overlooking Regent’s Park. It had seemed a wise plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more so that Bunting, who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection which enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private parties. But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings. Two of his former masters had moved to another part of London, and a caterer in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt. And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had one been offered him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had not asked his wife’s permission to do this, as so good a husband ought to have done. He had just gone out and done it. And she had not had the heart to say anything; nay, it was with part of the money that he had handed her silently the evening he did it that she had bought that last packet of tobacco. And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts, there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous, uncertain double knock. CHAPTER II. Mr. Bunting jumped nervously to her feet. She stood for a moment listening in the darkness, a darkness made the blacker by the line of light under the door behind which sat Bunting reading his paper. And then it came again, that loud, tremulous, uncertain double knock; not a knock, so the listener told herself, that boded any good. Would-be lodgers gave sharp, quick, bold, confident raps. No; this must be some kind of beggar. The queerest people came at all hours, and asked—whining or threatening—for money. Mrs. Bunting had had some sinister experiences with men and women—especially women—drawn from that nameless, mysterious class made up of the human flotsam and jetsam which drifts about every great city. But since she had taken to leaving the gas in the passage unlit at night she had been very little troubled with that kind of visitors, those human bats which are attracted by any kind of light but leave alone those who live in darkness. She opened the door of the sitting-room. It was Bunting’s place to go to the front door, but she knew far better than he did how to deal with difficult or obtrusive callers. Still, somehow, she would have liked him to go to-night. But Bunting sat on, absorbed in his newspaper; all he did at the sound of the bedroom door opening was to look up and say, “Didn’t you hear a knock?” Without answering his question she went out into the hall. Slowly she opened the front door. On the top of the three steps which led up to the door, there stood the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and an old-fashioned top hat. He waited for a few seconds blinking at her, perhaps dazzled by the light of the gas in the passage. Mrs. Bunting’s trained perception told her at once that this man, odd as he looked, was a gentleman, belonging by birth to the class with whom her former employment had brought her in contact. “Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?” he asked, and there was something shrill, unbalanced, hesitating, in his voice. “Yes, sir,” she said uncertainly—it was a long, long time since anyone had come after their lodgings, anyone, that is, that they could think of taking into their respectable house. Instinctively she stepped a little to one side, and the stranger walked past her, and so into the hall. And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting noticed that he held a narrow bag in his left hand. It was quite a new bag, made of strong brown leather. “I am looking for some quiet rooms,” he said; then he repeated the words, “quiet rooms,” in a dreamy, absent way, and as he uttered them he looked nervously round him. Then his sallow face brightened, for the hall had been carefully furnished, and was very clean. There was a neat hat-and-umbrella stand, and the stranger’s weary feet fell soft on a good, serviceable dark-red drugget, which matched in colour the flock-paper on the walls. A very superior lodging-house this, and evidently a superior lodging-house keeper. “You’d find my rooms quite quiet, sir,” she said gently. “And just now I have four to let. The house is empty, save for my husband and me, sir.” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice. It seemed too good to be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which recalled to the poor woman her happy, far-off days of youth and of security. “That sounds very suitable,” he said. “Four rooms? Well, perhaps I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see all four before I make my choice.” How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the gas! But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed them by. She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom she already in her mind described as “the lodger,” who turned and rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it. “Oh, thank you, sir!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry you should have had the trouble.” For a moment their eyes met. “It’s not safe to leave a front door open in London,” he said, rather sharply. “I hope you do not often do that. It would be so easy for anyone to slip in.” Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset. The stranger had still spoken courteously, but he was evidently very much put out. “I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open,” she answered hastily. “You needn’t be at all afraid of that!” And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the sound of Bunting coughing—it was just a little, hard cough, but Mrs. Bunting’s future lodger started violently. “Who’s that?” he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm. “Whatever was that?” “Only my husband, sir. He went out to buy a paper a few minutes ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose.” “Your husband—?” he looked at her intently, suspiciously. “What—what, may I ask, is your husband’s occupation?” Mrs. Bunting drew herself up. The question as to Bunting’s occupation was no one’s business but theirs. Still, it wouldn’t do for her to show offence. “He goes out waiting,” she said stiffly. “He was a gentleman’s servant, sir. He could, of course, valet you should you require him to do so.” And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase. At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to herself, called the drawing-room floor. It consisted of a sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind. She opened the door of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier. This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green carpet simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, old-fashioned chiffonnier. On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, clipped from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of these pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of elegance and refinement. As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that she had summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the room a thorough turn-out. It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been left by its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been scared into going away by Bunting’s rough threats of the police. But now it was in apple-pie order, with one paramount exception, of which Mrs. Bunting was painfully aware. There were no white curtains to the windows, but that omission could soon be remedied if this gentleman really took the lodgings. But what was this—? The stranger was looking round him rather dubiously. “This is rather—rather too grand for me,” he said at last “I should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er—” “—Bunting,” she said softly. “Bunting, sir.” And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, after all—or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but perhaps this gentleman was a poor gentleman—too poor, that is, to afford the rent of more than one room, say eight or ten shillings a week; eight or ten shillings a week would be very little use to her and Bunting, though better than nothing at all. “Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?” “No,” he said, “no. I think I should like to see what you have farther up the house, Mrs.—,” and then, as if making a prodigious mental effort, he brought out her name, “Bunting,” with a kind of gasp. The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the drawing-room floor. But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact that they were bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had been taken over their arrangement; in fact, they had been left in much the same condition as that in which the Buntings had found them. For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel sitting-room out of an apartment of which the principal features are a sink and a big gas stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete pattern, was fed by a tiresome, shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. It had been the property of the people from whom the Buntings had taken over the lease of the house, who, knowing it to be of no monetary value, had thrown it in among the humble fittings they had left behind. What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry that she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive. To her surprise, however, her companion’s dark, sensitive, hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. “Capital! Capital!” he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he held at his feet, and rubbing his long, thin hands together with a quick, nervous movement. “This is just what I have been looking for.” He walked with long, eager strides towards the gas stove. “First-rate—quite first-rate! Exactly what I wanted to find! You must understand, Mrs.—er—Bunting, that I am a man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of experiments, and I often require the—ah, well, the presence of great heat.” He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the stove. “This, too, will be useful—exceedingly useful, to me,” and he touched the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing touch. He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he sat down—wearily. “I’m tired,” he muttered in a low voice, “tired—tired! I’ve been walking about all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit down upon. They do not put benches for tired men in the London streets. They do so on the Continent. In some ways they are far more humane on the Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting.” “Indeed, sir,” she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, she asked the question of which the answer would mean so much to her, “Then you mean to take my rooms, sir?” “This room, certainly,” he said, looking round. “This room is exactly what I have been looking for, and longing for, the last few days;” and then hastily he added, “I mean this kind of place is what I have always wanted to possess, Mrs. Bunting. You would be surprised if you knew how difficult it is to get anything of the sort. But now my weary search has ended, and that is a relief—a very, very great relief to me!” He stood up and looked round him with a dreamy, abstracted air. And then, “Where’s my bag?” he asked suddenly, and there came a note of sharp, angry fear in his voice. He glared at the quiet woman standing before him, and for a moment Mrs. Bunting felt a tremor of fright shoot through her. It seemed a pity that Bunting was so far away, right down the house. But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well-born and of the well-educated. Scholars, as she well knew, are never quite like other people, and her new lodger was undoubtedly a scholar. “Surely I had a bag when I came in?” he said in a scared, troubled voice. “Here it is, sir,” she said soothingly, and, stooping, picked it up and handed it to him. And as she did so she noticed that the bag was not at all heavy; it was evidently by no means full. He took it eagerly from her. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered. “But there is something in that bag which is very precious to me—something I procured with infinite difficulty, and which I could never get again without running into great danger, Mrs. Bunting. That must be the excuse for my late agitation.” “About terms, sir?” she said a little timidly, returning to the subject which meant so much, so very much to her. “About terms?” he echoed. And then there came a pause. “My name is Sleuth,” he said suddenly,—“S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you’ll never forget my name. I could provide you with a reference—” (he gave her what she described to herself as a funny, sideways look), “but I should prefer you to dispense with that, if you don’t mind. I am quite willing to pay you—well, shall we say a month in advance?” A spot of red shot into Mrs. Bunting’s cheeks. She felt sick with relief—nay, with a joy which was almost pain. She had not known till that moment how hungry she was—how eager for—a good meal. “That would be all right, sir,” she murmured. “And what are you going to charge me?” There had come a kindly, almost a friendly note into his voice. “With attendance, mind! I shall expect you to give me attendance, and I need hardly ask if you can cook, Mrs. Bunting?” “Oh, yes, sir,” she said. “I am a plain cook. What would you say to twenty-five shillings a week, sir?” She looked at him deprecatingly, and as he did not answer she went on falteringly, “You see, sir, it may seem a good deal, but you would have the best of attendance and careful cooking—and my husband, sir—he would be pleased to valet you.” “I shouldn’t want anything of that sort done for me,” said Mr. Sleuth hastily. “I prefer looking after my own clothes. I am used to waiting on myself. But, Mrs. Bunting, I have a great dislike to sharing lodgings—” She interrupted eagerly, “I could let you have the use of the two floors for the same price—that is, until we get another lodger. I shouldn’t like you to sleep in the back room up here, sir. It’s such a poor little room. You could do as you say, sir—do your work and your experiments up here, and then have your meals in the drawing-room.” “Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that sounds a good plan. And if I offered you two pounds, or two guineas? Might I then rely on your not taking another lodger?” “Yes,” she said quietly. “I’d be very glad only to have you to wait on, sir.” “I suppose you have a key to the door of this room, Mrs. Bunting? I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working.” He waited a moment, and then said again, rather urgently, “I suppose you have a key to this door, Mrs. Bunting?” “Oh, yes, sir, there’s a key—a very nice little key. The people who lived here before had a new kind of lock put on to the door.” She went over, and throwing the door open, showed him that a round disk had been fitted above the old keyhole. He nodded his head, and then, after standing silent a little, as if absorbed in thought, “Forty-two shillings a week? Yes, that will suit me perfectly. And I’ll begin now by paying my first month’s rent in advance. Now, four times forty-two shillings is”—he jerked his head back and stared at his new landlady; for the first time he smiled, a queer, wry smile—“why, just eight pounds eight shillings, Mrs. Bunting!” He thrust his hand through into an inner pocket of his long cape-like coat and took out a handful of sovereigns. Then he began putting these down in a row on the bare wooden table which stood in the centre of the room. “Here’s five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten pounds. You’d better keep the odd change, Mrs. Bunting, for I shall want you to do some shopping for me to-morrow morning. I met with a misfortune to-day.” But the new lodger did not speak as if his misfortune, whatever it was, weighed on his spirits. “Indeed, sir. I’m sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Bunting’s heart was going thump—thump—thump. She felt extraordinarily moved, dizzy with relief and joy. “Yes, a very great misfortune! I lost my luggage, the few things I managed to bring away with me.” His voice dropped suddenly. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “I was a fool to say that!” Then, more loudly, “Someone said to me, ‘You can’t go into a lodging-house without any luggage. They wouldn’t take you in.’ But _you_ have taken me in, Mrs. Bunting, and I’m grateful for—for the kind way you have met me—” He looked at her feelingly, appealingly, and Mrs. Bunting was touched. She was beginning to feel very kindly towards her new lodger. “I hope I know a gentleman when I see one,” she said, with a break in her staid voice. “I shall have to see about getting some clothes to-morrow, Mrs. Bunting.” Again he looked at her appealingly. “I expect you’d like to wash your hands now, sir. And would you tell me what you’d like for supper? We haven’t much in the house.” “Oh, anything’ll do,” he said hastily. “I don’t want you to go out for me. It’s a cold, foggy, wet night, Mrs. Bunting. If you have a little bread-and-butter and a cup of milk I shall be quite satisfied.” “I have a nice sausage,” she said hesitatingly. It was a very nice sausage, and she had bought it that same morning for Bunting’s supper; as to herself, she had been going to content herself with a little bread and cheese. But now—wonderful, almost, intoxicating thought—she could send Bunting out to get anything they both liked. The ten sovereigns lay in her hand full of comfort and good cheer. “A sausage? No, I fear that will hardly do. I never touch flesh meat,” he said; “it is a long, long time since I tasted a sausage, Mrs. Bunting.” “Is it indeed, sir?” She hesitated a moment, then asked stiffly, “And will you be requiring any beer, or wine, sir?” A strange, wild look of lowering wrath suddenly filled Mr. Sleuth’s pale face. “Certainly not. I thought I had made that quite clear, Mrs. Bunting. I had hoped to hear that you were an abstainer—” “So I am, sir, lifelong. And so’s Bunting been since we married.” She might have said, had she been a woman given to make such confidences, that she had made Bunting abstain very early in their acquaintance. That he had given in about that had been the thing that first made her believe, that he was sincere in all the nonsense that he talked to her, in those far-away days of his courting. Glad she was now that he had taken the pledge as a younger man; but for that nothing would have kept him from the drink during the bad times they had gone through. And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom which opened out of the drawing-room. It was a replica of Mrs. Bunting’s own room just underneath, excepting that everything up here had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better in quality. The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of content and peace stealing over his worn face. “A haven of rest,” he muttered; and then, “‘He bringeth them to their desired haven.’ Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting.” “Yes, sir.” Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled. It was the first time anyone had quoted the Bible to her for many a long day. But it seemed to set the seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth’s respectability. What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one lodger, and that a gentleman, instead of with a married couple! Very peculiar married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the seaside. How unlucky they had been, to be sure! Since they had come to London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately respectable and kindly. The last lot had belonged to that horrible underworld of men and women who, having, as the phrase goes, seen better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of petty fraud. “I’ll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean towels,” she said, going to the door. And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round. “Mrs. Bunting”—and as he spoke he stammered a little—“I—I don’t want you to interpret the word attendance too liberally. You need not run yourself off your feet for me. I’m accustomed to look after myself.” And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed—even a little snubbed. “All right, sir,” she said. “I’ll only just let you know when I’ve your supper ready.” CHAPTER III. But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune which had fallen their way? Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs. In the hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still her agitation. She had always disliked and despised any show of emotion; she called such betrayal of feeling “making a fuss.” Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment looking at her husband’s bent back, and she realised, with a pang of pain, how the last few weeks had aged him. Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up. He put the paper he had been holding down on to the table: “Well,” he said, “well, who was it, then?” He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have answered the door and done all that parleying of which he had heard murmurs. And then in a moment his wife’s hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns fell in a little clinking heap on the table. “Look there!” she whispered, with an excited, tearful quiver in her voice. “Look there, Bunting!” And Bunting did look there, but with a troubled, frowning gaze. He was not quick-witted, but at once he jumped to the conclusion that his wife had just had in a furniture dealer, and that this ten pounds represented all their nice furniture upstairs. If that were so, then it was the beginning of the end. That furniture in the first-floor front had cost—Ellen had reminded him of the fact bitterly only yesterday—seventeen pounds nine shillings, and every single item had been a bargain. It was too bad that she had only got ten pounds for it. Yet he hadn’t the heart to reproach her. He did not speak as he looked across at her, and meeting that troubled, rebuking glance, she guessed what it was that he thought had happened. “We’ve a new lodger!” she cried. “And—and, Bunting? He’s quite the gentleman! He actually offered to pay four weeks in advance, at two guineas a week.” “No, never!” Bunting moved quickly round the table, and together they stood there, fascinated by the little heap of gold. “But there’s ten sovereigns here,” he said suddenly. “Yes, the gentleman said I’d have to buy some things for him to-morrow. And, oh, Bunting, he’s so well spoken, I really felt that—I really felt that—” and then Mrs. Bunting, taking a step or two sideways, sat down, and throwing her little black apron over her face burst into gasping sobs. Bunting patted her back timidly. “Ellen?” he said, much moved by her agitation, “Ellen? Don’t take on so, my dear—” “I won’t,” she sobbed, “I—I won’t! I’m a fool—I know I am! But, oh, I didn’t think we was ever going to have any luck again!” And then she told him—or rather tried to tell him—what the lodger was like. Mrs. Bunting was no hand at talking, but one thing she did impress on her husband’s mind, namely, that Mr. Sleuth was eccentric, as so many clever people are eccentric—that is, in a harmless way—and that he must be humoured. “He says he doesn’t want to be waited on much,” she said at last wiping her eyes, “but I can see he will want a good bit of looking after, all the same, poor gentleman.” And just as the words left her mouth there came the unfamiliar sound of a loud ring. It was that of the drawing-room bell being pulled again and again. Bunting looked at his wife eagerly. “I think I’d better go up, eh, Ellen?” he said. He felt quite anxious to see their new lodger. For the matter of that, it would be a relief to be doing something again. “Yes,” she answered, “you go up! Don’t keep him waiting! I wonder what it is he wants? I said I’d let him know when his supper was ready.” A moment later Bunting came down again. There was an odd smile on his face. “Whatever d’you think he wanted?” he whispered mysteriously. And as she said nothing, he went on, “He’s asked me for the loan of a Bible!” “Well, I don’t see anything so out of the way in that,” she said hastily, “’specially if he don’t feel well. I’ll take it up to him.” And then going to a small table which stood between the two windows, Mrs. Bunting took off it a large Bible, which had been given to her as a wedding present by a married lady with whose mother she had lived for several years. “He said it would do quite well when you take up his supper,” said Bunting; and, then, “Ellen? He’s a queer-looking cove—not like any gentleman I ever had to do with.” “He is a gentleman,” said Mrs. Bunting rather fiercely. “Oh, yes, that’s all right.” But still he looked at her doubtfully. “I asked him if he’d like me to just put away his clothes. But, Ellen, he said he hadn’t got any clothes!” “No more he hasn’t;” she spoke quickly, defensively. “He had the misfortune to lose his luggage. He’s one dishonest folk ’ud take advantage of.” “Yes, one can see that with half an eye,” Bunting agreed. And then there was silence for a few moments, while Mrs. Bunting put down on a little bit of paper the things she wanted her husband to go out and buy for her. She handed him the list, together with a sovereign. “Be as quick as you can,” she said, “for I feel a bit hungry. I’ll be going down now to see about Mr. Sleuth’s supper. He only wants a glass of milk and two eggs. I’m glad I’ve never fallen to bad eggs!” “Sleuth,” echoed Bunting, staring at her. “What a queer name! How d’you spell it—S-l-u-t-h?” “No,” she shot out, “S-l-e—u—t—h.” “Oh,” he said doubtfully. “He said, ‘Think of a hound and you’ll never forget my name,’” and Mrs. Bunting smiled. When he got to the door, Bunting turned round: “We’ll now be able to pay young Chandler back some o’ that thirty shillings. I am glad.” She nodded; her heart, as the saying is, too full for words. And then each went about his and her business—Bunting out into the drenching fog, his wife down to her cold kitchen. The lodger’s tray was soon ready; everything upon it nicely and daintily arranged. Mrs. Bunting knew how to wait upon a gentleman. Just as the landlady was going up the kitchen stair, she suddenly remembered Mr. Sleuth’s request for a Bible. Putting the tray down in the hall, she went into her sitting-room and took up the Book; but when back in the hall she hesitated a moment as to whether it was worth while to make two journeys. But, no, she thought she could manage; clasping the large, heavy volume under her arm, and taking up the tray, she walked slowly up the staircase. But a great surprise awaited her; in fact, when Mr. Sleuth’s landlady opened the door of the drawing-room she very nearly dropped the tray. She actually did drop the Bible, and it fell with a heavy thud to the ground. The new lodger had turned all those nice framed engravings of the early Victorian beauties, of which Mrs. Bunting had been so proud, with their faces to the wall! For a moment she was really too surprised to speak. Putting the tray down on the table, she stooped and picked up the Book. It troubled her that the Book should have fallen to the ground; but really she hadn’t been able to help it—it was mercy that the tray hadn’t fallen, too. Mr. Sleuth got up. “I—I have taken the liberty to arrange the room as I should wish it to be,” he said awkwardly. “You see, Mrs.—er—Bunting, I felt as I sat here that these women’s eyes followed me about. It was a most unpleasant sensation, and gave me quite an eerie feeling.” The landlady was now laying a small tablecloth over half of the table. She made no answer to her lodger’s remark, for the good reason that she did not know what to say. Her silence seemed to distress Mr. Sleuth. After what seemed a long pause, he spoke again. “I prefer bare walls, Mrs. Bunting,” he spoke with some agitation. “As a matter of fact, I have been used to seeing bare walls about me for a long time.” And then, at last his landlady answered him, in a composed, soothing voice, which somehow did him good to hear. “I quite understand
.] MOSES MARGOLIOUTH. ON A PASSAGE IN GOLDSMITH. Goldsmith, in _The Deserted Village_, has the lines: "Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, _A breath can make them, as a breath has made_; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied." In this passage the fourth line, which I have given in italics, is traced by D'Israeli, in _Curiosities of Literature_, under the head of "Imitations and Similarities," to the French poet, De Caux, who, comparing the world to his hour-glass, says-- ---- "C'est une verre qui luit, Qu'un souffle peut _détruire_, et qu'un souffle a _produit_." The turn given to the thought in the French has suggested to D'Israeli an emendation of the passage in Goldsmith. He proposes that the word "unmakes" should be substituted for "can make." The line would then read-- "A breath _unmakes_ them, as a breath has made." This emendation seems to me to be alike ingenious and well-founded. The line itself is but the corollary of the one that precedes it; and in order to make the sense complete, it should contain antithetical expressions to correspond with "flourish" and "fade." Now, between "can make" and "made" there is nothing antithetical; but between "made" and "unmakes" there is. In support of this view, I may quote one or two parallel passages, in which the antithesis is preserved. The first is a quatrain commemorating the devastating effects of an earthquake in the valley of Lucerne in 1808: "O ciel! ainsi ta Providence A tous les maux nous condamna: Un souffle _éteint_ notre existence Comme un souffle nous la _donna_." The second is a line which occurs in _Curiosities of Literature_, and which I am compelled to quote from memory, having no access to that work. It is as follows: "A breath _revived_ him, but a breath _o'erthrew_." That Goldsmith wrote the line in question with the word "unmakes," there seems little reason to doubt. To say of princes and lords that "a breath can make them, as a breath has made," far from conveying any idea of their "fading," would be, on the contrary, to indicate the facile process by which they may be perpetuated. It would show how they may "flourish," but not how they may "fade." Although this emendation in Goldsmith was pointed out many years ago, and recommends itself by its appositeness, and its obvious adaptation to the context, yet I believe it has never been introduced into any edition of that poet. I have before me two copies of _The Deserted Village_, and both contain the words "can make." As, however, among the many useful hints thrown out by "NOTES AND QUERIES," that of suggesting the emendation of obscure or difficult passages in our poets, appears to have met with the approbation of your readers, I trust some future editor of Goldsmith may be induced to notice this passage, and restore the text to its original accuracy. HENRY H. BREEN. St. Lucia. Minor Notes. _Biographical Dictionary._--May I beg for the assistance of "NOTES AND QUERIES" to enforce a want which I am sure is daily felt by thousands of educated Englishmen? The want I speak of is that of _a good Biographical Dictionary_, coming down to the middle of the century; a dictionary as good as the _Biog. Universelle_ for _foreign_ lives, and _a hundred times better for English lives_. Every one knows how meagre and unsatisfactory is that otherwise magnificent work in its English part. Why should we not have an abridged translation, with the home portion re-written? Z. Z. Z. _The Word Premises._--The use of the word _premises_ for houses, lands, and hereditaments, is surely incorrect. I have never found the word _præmissa_ used in any Latin writer in a sense that can sanction the modern application of its derivative. Johnson's authority supports the view that the word is perverted in being made to stand for houses and lands, as he says it is "in low language" that the noun substantive "premises" is used in that sense, as, "I was upon the _premises_," &c. The office of "the premises" in a deed, say the Law Dictionaries, is to express the names of the grantor and grantee, and to specify the thing granted. "The _premises_ is the former part of a deed, being all that which precedeth the _habendum_ or limitation of the estate." I believe the term "parcels" is applied, technically, to the specification of the property which forms the subject of a deed. In an instrument, it may not be wholly incorrect to refer by the term "premises" to the particulars premised, and, if an etymological inaccuracy, it may be excused for the sake of avoiding repetitions; but surely we ought not to speak of houses, lands, &c. by this term. I see I am not the first to call an editor's attention to this point, for, in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ of Jan., 1795, a correspondent complains of this improper application of the word, and attributes the perversion to the lawyers, "who," he says, "for the sake of brevity (to which, by-the-bye, they are not much attached), have accustomed themselves to the phrase, 'the aforesaid _premises_,' whence the word has come to be universally taken as a collective noun, signifying manors, tenements, and so on." The absurdity of such a use of the word is illustrated by putting it for animals, household goods, and personal estate, for which it may as well stand as for lands and houses. W. S. G. Newcastle-upon-Tyne. _Play of George Barnwell:_-- "Last Friday a messenger came from Hampton Court to the Play House by the Queen's command, for the manuscript of George Barnwell, for Her Majesty's perusal, which Mr. Wilks carried to Hampton Court early on Saturday morning; and we hear it is to be performed shortly at the Theatre in Hampton Court, for the entertainment of the Royal Family," &c.--_Daily Post_, Monday, July 5. 1731. H. E. _Traditions from Remote Periods through few Links_ (Vol. iii., pp. 206. 237.):-- "My greatest boast in this line is, that I have conversed with Sir Isaac Herd, the celebrated herald, and he had conversed with a person who was present at the execution of Charles I."--Lord Campbell's _Lives of the Chief Justices_, vol. ii. p. 304. note. E. H. A. Queries. DEODANDS AND THEIR APPLICATION. Blackstone states (1 _Comm._ p. 300.) that a deodand-- "Is forfeited to the king to be applied to pious uses, and distributed in alms by his high almoner, though formerly destined to a more superstitious purpose. It seems to have been originally designed, in the blind days of Popery, as an expiation for the souls of such as were snatched away by sudden death; and for that purpose ought properly to have been given to holy church." The authorities for this latter statement are Fitzh., _Abr._, tit. "Enditement," pt. 27., and Staunf., _P.C._, 20, 21., neither of which books are in my possession, nor in this remote district can I gain access to them. Hume, Lingard, Henry, and Rapin, omit all mention of this change in the destination of the deodand, at least so far as I can find. Fleta, who lived, according to Dr. Cowell (_Interpreter_, in verb. "Fleta"), tem. Ed. II., Ed. III., or, according to Jacob (_Law Dic._, in ver. "Fleta"), tem. Ed. I., says that-- "This deodand is to be sold to the poor, and the price distributed to the poor for the soul of the king and all faithful people departed this life."--_Interpreter_, in ver. "Deodand." It would therefore appear that in Fleta's time it was settled law that deodands went to the Crown; nor does this writer seem to take any notice of their having been, at any time, payable to the Church. Hawkins, East, and I think Hale also, are equally silent upon the point. Can any of your readers kindly supply the information as to when deodands first ceased to be given to the Church, and when they became the property of the Crown? JONATHAN PEEL. Minor Queries. 349. _Hell Paved with the Skulls of Priests._--The proverb "Hell is paved with good intentions" (Vol. ii. pp. 86. 140.), brings to my recollection a remark I once heard from the lips of a French priest. He was addressing an audience chiefly composed of students in divinity, and while descanting on the peculiar dangers to which ecclesiastics are exposed, and the obstacles they have to encounter at every step on the road to salvation, he said there could be no doubt that by far the greater number of them would incur eternal damnation. "It was this" (added he, with an emphasis which sent thrill of horror through all present), "It was this that made one of the early fathers assert, that Hell is paved with the skulls of priests." I think the preacher mentioned Tertullian as his authority for this singular sentiment, but he only gave the words: "L'enfer est pavé de têtes de prêtres." Can any of your readers point out the precise passage referred to? HENRY H. BREEN. St. Lucia. 350. _Charib._--Can any of your correspondents inform me what is the derivation and meaning of the word _Charib_? The Charibs were the ancient inhabitants, as is well known, of the smaller West Indian islands. W. J. C. St. Lucia. 351. _Thumb Bible._--Can any of your readers tell me the history of the Thumb Bible, reprinted by Longman, 1850? Who was "J. Taylor," who seems to have been the author? He has strangely spoilt Bishop Ken's Morning and Evening Hymns at the conclusion of his book. HERMES. 352. _Tripos._--What is the origin of the term "tripos" as applied to the mathematical and classical honour lists in the university of Cambridge? A. F. S. 353. _Louis Philippe and his Bag of Nails._--Has any of your correspondents heard a story about a bag of rusty nails which Louis Philippe used to carry about with him; with which he considered his fate as in some way connected; and which he lost a few days before February 24, 1848? If so, is it known whether the story is well authenticated? R. D. H. 354. _Brass Statues at Windsor._--"The Brass Statues at Windsor," sold in 1646 by order of the House of Lords to pay the troops at Windsor:--What were these statues? WAYLEN. 355. _Edmund Bohun._--Is it possible that some Trans-atlantic notist may be able to supply a scrap or two of intelligence respecting the brief career of Edmund Bohun, as Chief Justice of South Carolina, 1698-1701? I believe he died in the latter year, and was buried at Charlestown. S. W. RIX. Beccles. 356. _Bishop Trelawney._--To what parliamentary decision does Atterbury allude in the subjoined extract from the dedication to Trelawney, Bishop of Winchester, prefixed to his Sermons in four volumes, 1723? "This and another parliamentary decision, which your lordship not long after with equal difficulty obtained, and by which the bishop's sole right to judge of the qualifications of persons applying for institution was unutterably confirmed, are such instances of your magnanimity and public spirit as will remain in memory while the church or the law of England lasts." E. H. A. Minor Queries Answered. _Companion Ladder._--Why are the stairs leading from the deck to the chief cabin of a ship called "the companion ladder?" A CONSTANT READER. [The _companion_ in merchant ships is a wooden porch placed over the entrance or staircase of the cabin. Hence the ladder by which officers ascend to and descend from the quarter-deck, is called the _companion ladder_.] _Macaulay's Ballad of the Battle of Naseby._--Where is Mr. Macaulay's ballad of the "Battle of Naseby" to be found printed entire? It is not republished in the last edition of his _Lays of Ancient Rome_. D. B. J. [It has never, we believe, been printed since its first publication in _Knight's Magazine_, about the year 1824. From the omission pointed out by our correspondent, it is obvious that the accomplished writer of it does not himself regard this ballad as deserving of republication.] Replies. THE CRUCIFIX AS USED BY THE EARLY CHRISTIANS. (Vol. iv., p. 422.). A correspondent questions the accuracy of MR. CURZON's statement, in his _Monasteries of the Levant_, that-- "The crucifix was not known before the fifth or sixth century, though the cross was always the emblem of the Christian faith,"-- and asks for information as to its use, and the dates of the earliest examples. Some twenty years ago I devoted some care to this inquiry, and the result will be found in a chapter on the decline of the arts in Greece, in a _History of Modern Greece_, which I published in 1830. To that essay, but more especially to the authorities which it cites, I would refer your correspondent; and I think, after an examination of the latter, he will be disposed to concur with me, that Mr. Curzon's statement is correct. It is in accordance with that of Gibbon, and sustained by the same authorities as Basnage, to the effect that the first Christians, from their association with the Jews, and their aversion to the mythology of the Greeks, were hostile to the use of images of any description in their primitive temples, in which they reluctantly admitted the figure of the ignominious cross, as a memorial of the Redeemer's death. At a later period, however, the veneration for the _relics_ of departed saints led to the admission of their painted _portraits_, and eventually to the erection of their images and effigies in wood and marble. (_Gibbon_, chap. xxiii. xlix.) Reiskius states that it was not till the fourth century after Christ that the latter innovation began: "Ecclesia vero Christiana tribus seculis prioribus ne quidem imagines recepit aut inter sacra numeravit instrumenta. Sed demum sub finem quarti seculi ea lege admisit ut in templis memoriæ ac ornatus causa haberentur."--Reiskius, _De Imaginibus Jesu Christi Exercitationes Histor._, ex. i. c. i. sec. ii. p. 12. Lillio Giraldi concurs with Reiskius: "Illud certe non prætermittam nos dico Christianos ut aliquando Romanos fuisse sine imaginibus in primitiva quæ vocatur ecclesia."--Lillius Gregorius Giraldus, _Historiæ Deorum Syntage_, v. i. p. 15. The earliest images of Christ were those mentioned as being placed, by Alexander Severus, along with those of Abraham, Jupiter, Pythagoras, Plato, and Aristotle. (_Reiskius_, ex. vii. c. i. sec. i. p. 151.) Constantine placed two equestrian statues of the Saviour in the Lateran Church. But Molanus, who mentions the latter fact, insists that there were existing about this period numerous statues of the Saviour, which he would refer to the time of Pontius Pilate. (_De Historia SS. Imaginibus, &c._, lib. i. c. vi. p. 65.) The most ancient examples now remaining of the decorations employed by the early Christians, are doubtless those found in the catacombs at Rome. I have not access to any recent copies of these interesting antiquities; but so far as my recollection serves, they contain no example of a crucifix, or any literal delineation of the death of the Saviour. In fact, even in these gloomy retreats, the vigilance of persecution compelled the Christians to caution, and forced them to conceal, under allegories and mystery, the memorials of their faith; the figure of the Redeemer being always veiled under an assumed character, most generally that of a shepherd bearing in his arms a recovered lamb. This, which is the most common form of allegory of this period, occurs in the catacomb of the Via Latina, in that of Priscilla in the Via Salaria, discovered in 1776, both of which, according to Aringhi, are amongst the oldest Christian monuments now remaining. (_Roma Subterranea_, vol. ii. p. 25. 292.) In a sepulchral chamber in the cemetery of St. Calixtus, Jesus is represented as Orpheus with a lyre, as emblematic of the subduing influences of his life. But his death is still more cautiously shadowed forth by the types of Jonas, Isaac on the altar of Abraham, and Daniel in the den of lions,--examples of all of which are numerous; and the cover of an urn figured by Agincourt presents them all three. (_Histoire de l'Art par les Monumens_, vol. iv.; _Dec. Sculp._, pl. v. no. 10.) Art, after its decline in Rome, was later cherished by the Greeks at Byzantum, and allegory in their hands, during the third and fourth centuries, exhibited a much higher refinement than amongst the degenerate Romans,--the divinity and _life_ of Jesus being represented in their paintings by a youth of godlike mien and heavenly grace, with his foot upon the mane of a lion, whilst his _death_ is still typified by a lamb expiring at the foot of a cross, which it sprinkles with its blood, and his _resurrection_ by a phoenix, which rests upon the summit of a palm-tree, the emblem of his _victory_. I have stated that even the _cross_, as an emblem, was admitted "reluctantly" into the churches of the early Christians. The fact, and the causes of this reluctance, are stated fairly by Gibbon (ch. xx.), principally on the authorities consulted by Basnage in his _Histoire des Eglises Reformées_, to have had their origin in the idea of infamy and ignominy which they attached to the mode of execution by crucifixion,--feelings analogous to those inspired by a gallows or a gibbet; and it required a long lapse of time, even after Constantine had abolished throughout the Roman dominions the punishment which had prevailed for slaves and malefactors, but which the Saviour of mankind had submitted to suffer, before the people could be led to regard as a symbol for veneration that which had so long been an object of horror and disgust. A most interesting account of the subsidence of this feeling, and of its effects upon Sacred Art whilst it prevailed, will be found in Emeric David's _Discours sur la Peinture Moderne_, p. 115. It rendered allegory so indispensable, that in the exhaustion of fancy it declined into conceits and puerility, which finally brought the subject into contempt, and compelled the hierarchy to exert the influence of the Church for its correction. This led to a measure the record of which is strongly corroborative of the statement of Mr. Curzon; namely, that A.D. 692, at the Quine Sextine, or _Council in Trullo_, it was ordered that thenceforth fiction and allegory should cease, and _the real figure of the Saviour be depicted on the tree_. (_Can._ 82. _Act. Concil._ Paris, 1714, v. iii. col. 1691, 1692.) The Greeks complied, but with reluctance, to delineate the actual crucifixion; and as, in the controversy which arose in the second century, and never entirely subsided, regarding the beauty or deformity of the Saviour's features, the Greek Church had espoused the side of St. Basil, Tertullian, and Origen, who maintained that "he was without form or comeliness," their artists exhibited such a spectacle of deformity on the cross, that to the present hour a proverb compares a lean and ugly person to "un crucifix des Grecs." The Latins and Italians, on the other hand, whilst they were equally hostile to the literal exhibition of the Redeemer's death, and _forbore for nearly a century_ to comply with the orders of the Council _in Trullo_, adopted, as to his beauty, the party of Celsus and Chrysostom,--quoted the expression of David, "thou art fairer than the children of men,"--and painted the Saviour, albeit suspended on the fatal tree, as a youth of heavenly mien; and instead of the crown of thorns, the lance, and the sponge, they represented him with a diadem, and insensible to suffering or pain. These remarks, though they will no doubt be insufficient as an answer to your correspondent, may perhaps direct him to authorities, the consultation of which will satisfy his inquiry. J. EMERSON TENNENT. London. THE WORD "Ἀδελφὸς." (Vol. iv., pp. 339, 458.) In commenting on the criticisms of J. B., may I be allowed to follow the order of his own reasoning as much as possible? 1st. I am glad to find that Scapula is right, but I must object to the use of the participle _acquiescing_, as applied to me. My word is "_de_duction," and is applied to a rule grounded upon Scapula's correctness, and may, I think, settle the sense of those disputed verses in Matt. xiii. 55, 56, to say nothing of two indisputable proofs which might be adduced. 2nd. _I_ am wrong--for what? for _appearing_, in the eyes of J. B., to have done that which I have not done,--for bringing in links of "the Indo-Germanic languages," which I have neither done, nor can do. 3rd. "The word is solely and peculiarly Greek." Let me give only one etymon by way of preparation for my answer. Let us take the word _mouse_. Well, it comes from the Latin _mus_, which comes, you will say, from the Greek μυς, and there are many clever etymologists, excepting a few, with J. B. and myself, would say, "it is solely and peculiarly Greek;" but _we_ go up to the Sanscrit (the _mother_ of European languages), and bring forward _mush_, a mouse, and here is _the terminus_--and why? because _mush_ signifies _to steal_, and therefore sufficiently describes the nature of the little animal. Now, because we cannot _find_ an existing link between the Greek and Sanscrit, is that a reason for asserting αδελφος to be of pure Greek _origin_? No; and if J. B. will only recollect that all words in Sanscrit, excepting bare primary roots, are compounded after the same manner as αδελφος or rather δελ-φ], he will, I hope, find that I have _not been wrong_ in my _etymon_. Moreover, let J. B. prove, _if he can_, what is _the meaning_ of δελφ in the Greek, unaided by any other language. 4th. Why is the Sanscrit _bhratre_ brought into the contest? perhaps to prove what has not been proved, viz. that _it also_ signifies _frater uterinus_. 5th. "How happened it that the word φρατηρ was lost in Greek?" Why, because the Greeks thought it too _barbarous_ a word to _own_, as coming through the Latins from the barbarous Goths, Scandinavians, &c.! Let us pass over irrelevant matter till we come to 6th. J. B.'s authoritative rule, "that no apparent similarity between words in the Semitic and Asian (read Sanscrit) families can be used to establish a real identity, the two classes of language being _radically_ and fundamentally distinct." Vide _mouse_, and a hundred more roots, that might quash this rule. To conclude, I did not introduce the Sanscrit _dal_ into my former note, because, I suppose, an idea passed through my mind that I might offend some "_interesting_ points in Greek manners." I have only one more remark to make, which is, that the Sanscrit _bhra-tre_ is a compound word like δελ-φυς. I will give the full etymology of this word _bhra-tre_, to prove that J. B. has done wrong in bringing in a word to militate against his _own_ rule. Persian, _bra-dar_; Sanscrit, _bhra-tre_; Gothic, _bro-thar_; Islandic, _bro-dir_; German, _bru-der_; Swedish and Danish, _bro-der_; Anglo-Saxon, _bro-ther_. Now, will J. B. prove that the Hebrew, Chaldee, and Syriac [Hebrew: bar], _bar_, a son, is not connected with the Persian and Sanscrit _bra_ and _bhra_? If he does, I shall doubtless be edified. T. R. BROWN. Vicarage, Southwick, near Oundle. THE ROMAN INDEX EXPURGATORIUS OF 1607. (Vol. iv., p. 440.) I am happy in being able to give, I trust, a satisfactory answer to the Query of your American correspondent U. U., respecting the original edition of 1607. There can be no doubt that the copy in the Bodleian Library is of the genuine edition. It was in the Library certainly before the year 1620, as it appears in the catalogue printed in that year, and still bears the same reference on the shelf as is there given to it, namely, 8vo. I. 32. Theol.; and it was doubtless the copy used by Dr. James, who superintended the forming of that catalogue, and who died only a few months before. The title runs thus: INDICIS (red ink) LIBRORVM (red) EXPVRGANDORVM in studiosorum gratiam confecti. Tomus Primus _IN QVO QVINQVAGINTA AVCTORVM_ _Libri præ ceteris desiderati emendantur._ (red ink) PER FR. IO. MARIAM BRASICHELLEN. (red ink) SACRI PALATII APOSTOLICI MAGISTRVM in vnum corpus redactus, & publicæ commoditati æditus (this first word red) (this date red) ------------------------------------------------------------ ROMÆ, ex Typographia R. Cam. Apost. M.DC.VII. ------------------------------------------------------------ (the line above red) SVPERIORVM PERMISSV. There is a full stop at confecti, also at emendantur, and at Brasichellen; but no stop whatever at auctorum. It extends (besides eight leaves of title and preliminary matter) to pp. 742. On the recto of the next and last leaf, "Series chartarum," &c., and at the bottom: ROMÆ, M.DC.VII. ---------------------------------------- _Ex Typographia Reu. Cameræ Apostolicæ._ ---------------------------------------- SVPERIORVM PERMISSV. There is also in the Bodleian Library a copy of the Bergomi edition, the title of which is as follows: (red ink) INDICIS LIBRORVM (red) EXPVRGANDORVM In studiosorum gratiam confecti (red) TOMVS PRIMVS In quo quinquaginta Auctorum Libri præ cæteris desiderati emendantur (red) PER F. IO. MARIAM BRASICHELL. Sacri Palatij Apost. Magistrum _In vnum corpus redactus & pub. commoditati æditus._ At the bottom: (red) ROMÆ Primò, Deinde BERGOMI, _typis Comini Venturæ_, 1608. This edition extends to 608 pages, in double columns, besides the preliminary matter, consisting of four articles, of which the first in this edition is the last in the genuine copy of 1607,--a circumstance mentioned by Clement as peculiar to the Altdorff edition; but here the signatures run to pages in eights, whereas the Altdorff edition "qu'ne remplit qu'un alphabet, et seize feuilles." I have never seen a copy of the Ratisbon edition. B. B. Replies to Minor Queries. _Hobbes's "Leviathan"_ (Vol. iv., p. 314.).--The meaning of the frontispiece to the first edition of this work, is, I imagine, sufficiently obvious. The large figure representing a commonwealth holds in his right hand a sword, in his left a pastoral crook. He is the emblem of a commonwealth "ecclesiastical and civil" (as the title of the book shows us). Ranged down one side of the page, under the sword-bearing arm, are the weapons and resources which the State possesses. Down the other side of the page, under the protection of the pastoral staff, is the corresponding armament of the Church. Thus, a castle and a church, a crown and a mitre, a cannon and spiritual thunderbolts, a trophy of guns and spears, &c., and one of dilemmas (represented by a pair of bull's horns), syllogisms (made like a three-pronged fork), and the like; these, ending with a battle on one side, a convention of bishops on the other, show the power which (as Hobbes would have it) each arm of the commonwealth should be able to have at its command. The whole picture is at best an absurd conceit, and very unworthy of the author of the _Leviathan_. H. A. B. The best edition of Hobbes's works was printed 1750. The print of _Leviathan_ in it is neither like Charles nor Cromwell, of whom I have old and good prints, and many. The print has at the bottom of it "_Written_ by Thos. Hobbs, 1651." C. J. W. _Age of Trees_ (Vol. iv., p. 401.).--I am rather surprised that your correspondent L., in his enumeration of remarkable trees, and collections of trees, in Great Britain, makes no mention, whilst on the subject of yew, of the splendid collection of old yew trees in Kingley Bottom, near Chichester, in Sussex. Should L. never have visited this charming spot, and its green antiquities, I can promise him a rich treat whenever he does so. Common report of the neighbourhood, from time immemorial, gives these venerable trees a date as far back as the landing of the sea-kings on the coast of Sussex; and sundry poems by local bards have been written on this theme. On one of the most prominent of the South Down Hills, rising immediately above the yew-tree valley, and called Bow Hill, are two large, and some smaller tumuli, which are always called by the natives the graves of the sea-kings, who with their followers are supposed to have fallen in a battle fought under these very yew trees. Can anybody tell me if the age of any of these trees has ever been ascertained? Kingley Bottom, or, as people now-a-days prefer calling it, Kingley Vale, is so much frequented as a spot for pic-nics and festive days, that I have no doubt many of your readers have seen the trees to which I refer, and can bear me out in asserting that they are worthy of ranking, in age and beauty, with any of their species in the kingdom. SCANDINAVIAN. The "Hethel Thorn," so well known to many Norfolk people, is on a farm now the property of that munificent patron of historical literature, Mr. Hudson Gurney, by whom it was purchased from Sir Thomas Beevor. The first Sir Thomas always said it was mentioned in a deed of 1200 and odd, as a boundary, under the appellation of "the Old Thorn." It is stated, also, that it is mentioned in some chronicle as _the thorn_ round which a meeting of insurgent peasantry was held during the reign of King John (can any readers of "NOTES AND QUERIES" give a reference to the precise passage?). An etching of this interesting relic has been made by Mr. Ninham. The involution of its branches, which are all hollow tubes, as heavy as iron, is most curious; and although the tree is certainly diminished of late years, it still puts out leaves and berries vigorously. W. J. T. _Treatise against Equivocation_ (Vol. iv., p. 419.).--Your correspondent EUPATOR has, in his examination of the MS. of this treatise, overlooked a title prefixed by Garnet, which furnishes the heading by which the book is correctly entered in the Catalogue of the Laudian MSS. as _A Treatise against (not _of_ or _for_) Lying and Fraudulent Dissimulation_. "Of" was first written, but at once crossed out, and "against" written _after_ it, _not_ interlined. Of the two errors which EUPATOR points out, the one was made at the press, by failure in reading the contraction for "verbo," which is printed correctly at length at p. 43., and the other was a mistake on the part of the transcriber. W. D. M. _Lycian Inscriptions_ (Vol. iv., p. 383.).--As to the double language in Homer of the gods and men, Heyne and others have thought (ad _Il._ A. 403.) that the one was the old language, the other the modern. See Clarke ib., who thinks one was the learned name, the other the vulgar: but gives a scholion of the former opinion. The passages are as follow: _Il._ Gods. Men. Α 403. Briareus Ægæon. Β
fitting swain, on Clovis, Marquis de Gange, and de Brèze agreed with her majesty that Clovis was just the man. So far as family went, the De Ganges could compete with the noblest. Acres had dwindled; tenants were recalcitrant; Clovis's income was little more than nominal, but nowadays poverty was modish in the highest circles; and, besides, it is well that the husband of a great heiress should be kept under due control. The cunning old soldier had settled long ago that the spouse of his daughter should not make ducks and drakes of her broad pieces, at least without her full consent. He had arranged in his own mind that he would bind up the money tight, and place it in her hands, hedged about with safeguards when called to another world. Till then he would himself dispense his fortune as his darling should wish and dictate. To this arrangement de Gange was quite agreeable, knowing that the maréchal was no skin-flint who would need abject suing. The old gentleman, who flattered himself that he was a judge of character, scanned the young man's features with keen scrutiny, and on the smooth surface could detect nothing of the ravenous wolf. The marquis was a tall, well-built, handsome fellow, dreamy and absent in manner, pedantic in his ways, a trifle too much enamoured of the crotchets of his day. In the waning eighteenth century, while ladies were hopelessly frivolous or else weighed down with pedantry, the gentlemen came for the most part under three categories. There was the debauched voluptuary, ruined alike in health, purse, and reputation, whose honour was perforce upon his sleeve, since there was no room in his body for aught but selfishness. Then there was a feeble imitator who was as artistically unsatisfactory as nondescripts always are, for his fragment of conscience pulled him one way, and his envious admiration of stupendous wickedness another. He was always on the see-saw between vice and virtue, barely within touch of either. The third class was the most interesting, for it was clothed in mystery and draped in paradox. The dark and uncanny and incomprehensible engrossed the minds of this set. Revealed religion having been voted out of date by the encyclopædists and others, it was necessary to replace the broken idol with another. It was affirmed that Nature was moved by secret springs, governed by a world of spirits whom it was possible to coerce and bring under man's dominion. It was discovered that talismans, astrology, magic sciences, were not the vulgar impostures denounced by a jealous priestcraft; that the _genus homo_ was composed of two distinct organisms, one visible and one invisible, the latter of which was privileged to roam freely about the universe, paying morning calls in remote planets, communing with angelic hosts. This was a fascinating theory for many reasons. The spirits who pulled our world-strings were good and bad, and alike vulnerable. Clearly, then, it was the distinct duty of philanthropists to fight and conquer those who were responsible for human ills. How delightful a sensation to seize a naughty spirit by the hair and administer a sound drubbing! To wrestle with the one, for instance, who is responsible for gout, and return him tweak for tweak! The yoke of the evil ones must be thrown off, that humanity, comfortably free from pain and sorrow, might sit down and enjoy millennium. Hence, the dreamy people who vaguely wished well to their fellows, joined the train of mystics, laid claim to superior virtue, and titillated their petty vanity by posing cheaply as philanthropists. Then think of the refreshing variety which might be introduced into one's amours! A weariful succession of mundane mistresses is so palling to a jaded palate. But according to the new creed, as your earthly tenement was occupied, _faute de mieux_, by commonplace lovemaking and intrigue, your more fortunate other self was blessed by an ethereal Affinity. While, in the flesh, you dallied, for want of something more amusing to do, at the feet of Phryne, your soul was flirting with a seraph somewhere in rarified space. It is gravely and seriously related of the visionary Swedenborg that while he resided in London, his fleshly frame was continually being refreshed. And how? His ethereal essence was in constant communion with that of a noble lady in Gutemburg. Their entwined spirits sat on a satin sofa in a boudoir illumined by wax candles--which candles were punctually lighted by respectful footmen at the accustomed hour of the rendezvous. The high priest of the new creed was Mesmer, a Swabian doctor, who was conspicuously successful in waging war against the envious elves who undermine the health. As to his career of victory there was no doubt whatever, for by hocus-pocus and laying on of hands, he succeeded in curing a variety of nervous complaints which the enemy said were due to diseased imagination. It was idle to deny that somehow or other he did work miracles. Even St. Thomas, arch-doubter, could believe what he saw and felt. Under Mesmer's influence the sick took up their beds and walked, the halt flung away their crutches. The streets about his dwelling were choked with blazoned coaches. The frivolous and the earnest alike lost their heads. Considering the peculiarities of his temperament--too timid and too lazy to act, and therefore easily satisfied with theory--it was in the nature of things that Clovis, Marquis de Gange, should be Mesmer's most fervent pupil. At a period when the peccadilloes of high-born aspirants to eligible maidens were apt to be somewhat deep-dyed, it would have been absurd to object to a suitor on the frivolous score of mysticism. The most exacting of wives could hardly be jealous of a passing flirtation with the crystal ball of Doctor Dee. Nor could she fairly take umbrage at delicate attentions to a crucible. Clovis and Gabrielle were married in the royal chapel, the bride being given away by the most amiable and unsinning of hard-used monarchs, and the world (who ought to know) said that the future of the happy pair could not be otherwise than rosy. They were a model couple, for Clovis was serious and reflective beyond his years, with a graceful turn for music, while the lovely face of Gabrielle beamed with affectionate pride. She was quiet, steady, and domestic, quite smothered under a heap of virtues. Unfortunately, there were spirits at work who should have been detected at once in their mischievous game if Mesmer had not been napping, and duly routed by that prophet for the behoof of his dear pupil. They should have been carefully exorcised by the Master for his benefit, and sent packing into space to worry some one else; but as ill-luck would have it, the prophet was no longer present. All the medicos of the French capital uprose with one accord, like one large man, and sent the great Mesmer flying. If the new creed was to be accepted, where would all the doctors be? It was altogether a pestilent affair. Bread must not be snatched out of the mouths of doctors by designing quacks. Deputations of furious physicians rushed to the Tuileries, charging the luckless Swabian with egregious misdemeanours, and the king, as was his wont, gave way on the wrong occasion. Mesmer fell a victim to professional jealousy and ignorance, and was banished from France. He paid clandestine visits to Paris between 1785 and 1793, and to the end his following was great, but for all that, like many another illustrious pioneer, he was kicked and buffeted by ignorance. The spirits, whom he was too busy in his absence and his anxieties to exorcise, played havoc in the new _ménage_. Clovis, who took very kindly to the fleshpots, was proud of his wife's beauty and success, and in no wise jealous of the danglers. In truth, she was no more to him than the _chef-d'[oe]uvre_ of a great painter, which we admire as our own until we weary of it; while we take pleasure in listening to the praises of the critics thereanent, because it chances to be our property; a noble work whose beauties we appreciate for a time with the eye of the connoisseur, then--since it is always with us--cease to contemplate at all. She was perfect, of course; every one knew that. Her husband, however, found little enjoyment in her society, and soon came to prefer the contemplation of the over-vaunted charms from a respectful distance. Accustomed as the spoilt beauty was to lavish showers of admiration from morning till night, the unexpected coldness of Clovis surprised and offended Gabrielle. Had she not in her artless way said, as it were, "You are my partner, chosen by the wise ones. I am pure, and true, and full of love, and you shall have it all?" It was not within her experience to suppose that the chosen partner would care nothing for her. How could she suppose that the angel direct from heaven (which she was assured that she was at least a dozen times a day) was no more to the bone of her bone than a statue to be dusted and approved? Gabrielle was extremely proud; had been pampered much. She was--alas, that so fair a jewel should be flawed--quite ignorant of female wiles. So distressing and blunt an innocence was probably her mother's gift. Uncompromisingly straightforward, the young bride, who, from the first, was genuinely fond of the handsome marquis, roundly accused him of indifference. What had she done to deserve it? As she complained, she cried a little, which was tiresome. Men abhor feminine whimpering, which always reddens the nose. She insisted on knowing in what she had offended. Her listening lord came down from an excursion in some upper sphere, somewhat irritably disposed by the interruption, and abruptly assured the weeping lady that she was mistaken. He admired and liked her very much, and would like her still better if she would abstain from making scenes. He had never been in love, he tranquilly confessed, and never would be; had never been in the meshes of any siren. Perhaps his invisible twin-self was so devoted somewhere to an "Affinity" as to have engrossed the love-capacity of both. Such an explanation did not mend matters. An Affinity, forsooth--in space! More likely one of flesh and blood in hiding round the corner. It is humiliating to be calmly told that the man to whom one has given oneself till death brings parting, has never been in love--ay--and never will be! Stung by a feeling that was half-suspicious jealousy, half-outraged pride, the young wife said cutting things which had better been left unspoken. The face of the marquis darkened. "It depends on yourself," he remarked, coldly, "whether we dwell together in peace and amity or not. I have already said that I like and admire you very much. You must be content to take people as you find them, for it is manifest that no one can give that which he does not possess." It is a grievous thing for a domestically inclined and affectionate woman to be rudely exhorted to feed on her own tissues; to discover that, as regards herself and the chosen one, affection is all on one side. With burning tears of mortification, Gabrielle realised that though Clovis was as cold as a corpse, she loved him. Perchance the unconscious fear engendered by contact with so unusual and unexpected a type, gave birth to a surprised fascination. She set him down as a very clever and extremely learned man, and, had he so willed it, would have worshipped at his shrine with the unreasoning satisfaction of those who are not mentally gifted. She would have whispered with arms about his neck, "Dear Clovis! I am not clever enough to rise to your level, but I believe all you say because you say it. So kiss me, for I am yours for all in all, and so delighted to be lovely and an heiress for your dear darling sake!" But how to coo forth such pretty prattle to a figure made of wood? How rest content with being coldly liked, when you are burning to be beloved? Scathing disappointment and disillusion! The beautiful and pampered Gabrielle, fortune's favoured child, moped and fretted, and was miserable. As years went on matters did not improve, for the unseen fingers of the naughty spirits were tearing the pair asunder. When she would fain have pouted out her lips to kiss, he stretched a surface of cheek that was aggressively passive. He was kind according to his lights--intended to be quite a model husband, but then wives and husbands differ as to the way that leads to perfection. Since there could be no sympathy between them, he interfered with her in no wise. A man often deems that negative condition of freedom the _summum bonum_; not so an affectionate woman. It is said that _mariages de convenance_ are in the long run the most satisfactory unions, because neither party expects anything, and whatever pleasure may casually arise from friendly intercourse is to the good, whereas love-matches are built upon the sand, made up of vague yearnings and unpractical desires. The inevitable discovery is reached with lamentable rapidity that dolls are stuffed with bran, and that in a sadly imperfect world "things are not what they seem." But if sympathy is nil--never existed at all--what flowers of joy can spring from utter barrenness? Clovis adored music, and could discourse prettily enough on the 'cello. Alack! Gabrielle had no ear, could not tell Glück from Lulli; the droning of the 'cello set her nerves a tingling; and when the unappreciated player put down the bow to prate of animal magnetism, as expounded by the immortal Mesmer, his beautiful wife grew peevish. Oh, foolish Gabrielle! why could you not be affectionately deceitful since you loved the man. Is the better sex gifted for nothing with peculiar attributes? Why not have compelled yourself, with pardonable falsehood, to ask tenderly after the favourite 'cello, have begged to be told more of Mesmer? You would, doubtless, have had to listen to much that would have profoundly bored you; but is not sweet woman's mission self-effacement--the daily swallowing of a large dose of boredom? Would you not have been well repaid, if you could have taught your husband by cunning degrees to seek your society instead of gadding after science; to prefer to all others a seat in your bower, with the partner who has become necessary to his comfort? Certain it is that some of us have a dismal knack of turning our least comely side to those whom we like best. Whilst inwardly longing to fling herself prone in the mire and embrace his dear, lovely legs, the marquise grew nervous in her husband's presence; was fatally impelled somehow to play the somnambule, and close up like a sleeping flower. And so it came about that as time wore on the husband sought his wife's society less and less; grew daily more indifferent. The Marquise de Gange was not one of those who could find distraction among danglers. Both education and temperament forbade so improper but modish a proceeding. To her the circle of admirers were wired dolls, and tiresome puppets, too. Eating her heart in solitude, she might have been goaded in time to fly the empty world, and seek the consolation of a cloister. But she was saved from such grim comfort by the arrival of a pair of cherubs. A boy and a girl were born unto her, and thanking God for the saving boon, she arose and felt brave again. Gabrielle's nature, which had been hardening, though she knew it not, softened. For the sake of the pink mites she could consent to live on in a world that was no longer empty. By some magical metamorphosis the ugly cracks that had yawned across the stony plain had been filled up. The dun hideousness which by its drear monotony made the eyes ache was masked by blossom and verdure. Crooning over the silver cradle in which both treasures slumbered (an extravagance of the enchanted maréchal) she built airy palaces of amazing gorgeousness for them to dwell in. They were to be shielded by triple walls from care and sorrow. To money all, we are told, is possible. Then fell the palaces like piles of cards. Had she not herself been shielded? Had not gold been freely squandered that not one of her rose leaves should be crumpled? Yet--but for the advent of the cherubs, and despite the watchful affection of the doting maréchal--had she not been very near fleeing from the tinsel grandeur of a squalid globe to take refuge at the altar-foot? The castles insisted on being built, however. Patience and long-suffering would reap their reward some day. The cherubs would grow up and weave an indissoluble link with their young fingers which should draw the estranged parents together and bind them tight at last. Their mother would fondly teach them to adore their father, to see none but his best side. They would learn to respect his crotchets. And at this point she would herself be lost in dreamy reverie. Could his tenets with regard to the prophet be aught but midsummer madness? There was no doubt that he cured the sick. What if it were really possible to rout the wicked demons and produce millennium? To her practical but limited intelligence the creed was a farrago of folly. But then, Clovis, who was so clever, believed in it. Was she more stupid and ignorant even than humility confessed? Then she would rise suddenly and go about some household business, with the head-shake of the antlered stag that scatters dewdrops. The new creed was blasphemy, and she would have naught to do with it. The holy angels would guard herself and the dear innocents, if angelic suffrages could be secured by never-ceasing fervent prayer. Sages do not care for babies, though mothers generally do. Clovis, when exhorted to that effect, contemplated his offspring once a day as some curious product from a distant land, gave each cherub a finger to suck, then retired with unseemly alacrity to his 'cello and his books. The ramifications of secret societies in the metropolis were spreading in all directions--societies which deliberated with closed doors to escape vulgar ribaldry--bands of philanthropists urged by pure benevolence, in search now of a universal panacea. Humanity was a vast brotherhood to be united for mutual defence against the machinations of the devils. Exhorted by Mesmer from a distance, the faithful toiled quietly on, that the name of their master might be exalted. So matters progressed in humdrum fashion for several years, and Clovis was placidly content; but as the procession of the months went by, a gradual change came over the societies, which, when he became aware of it, filled the unmilitant soul of the marquis with dread. Bold philanthropists, at midnight meetings, would sometimes give vent to new and startling views, affecting not health, but politics. A few presumed openly to declare that the evil spirits had got into the ministers, from whom they must be quickly expelled. Considering that ministries fell and rose just now at brief intervals, it was shocking to think how many bad spirits must be at work. M. Necker and Turgot, and brilliantly fertile Calonne, were all occupied by fiends who entered in and made themselves comfortable, as the hermit-crab invades the shell of the creature he has devoured. This theorem being established, it became the duty of the philanthropists to busy themselves on behalf of their country, which needed special as well as prompt doctoring. Then uprose speakers whose discourse smacked little of philanthropy, but savoured rather of iconoclasm. The Marquis de Gange, noble and wealthy, would make a splendid figure-head for the budding movement. Ere he could recover breath, or gather the scattered strands of his scared wits, Clovis found himself on the point of becoming an important political personage, and at a moment when prominence and personal peril marched hand in hand abreast. He prudently took to shunning the places of meeting, which but the other day had been his favourite resorts, for he had a horror of politics, and objected to being made a hero; but the agitators declined to let him escape so easily. They pursued him to his home, strove to convince him that he was a patriot; by turns threatened and cajoled, till the dreamer in an agony beheld no safety but in flight. A pretty state of things! Was not his wife the favourite of the queen; his father-in-law esteemed by the king? What would the verdict of his class be, were he to turn round and bite the hands that had caressed him? He would be ostracised, undone, held up to merited obloquy. He had no ambition to become another Lafayette, and declined to be convinced by argument. To avoid being mixed in complications fraught with danger, it would be prudent to vanish for a time, but whither to retire was the rub. He wished to stay and yet to go, and bit his nails in indecision. Concealed anxiety made calm Clovis querulous and snappish, and Gabrielle was not slow to perceive that he was suffering, though the cause she could not guess. He had got himself into some mess. Was it money? If only he would let her share his worries! Her timid overtures were promptly nipped; terror made him absolutely harsh. Sighing, she fell back upon herself, as usual, and kissed the cherubs in their bed. At the time when this story opens, July, 1789, the marquis and his wife had been married six years. The latter, though easily led by kindness, could fitfully display sometimes symptoms of independence. As a loving and self-respecting woman, she had kept with infinite care her catalogue of troubles from her parents. They, content with constant assurances that all was well, desired no further information. Madame de Brèze had settled, to her complete satisfaction, that her son-in-law was a harmless lunatic. When she obliged him with her views, he looked through her at something beyond. But then, who had ever appreciated her sagacity? Well, well. Have not some of our brightest lights been misunderstood while alive, to be tardily canonized afterwards? As for M. de Brèze, he was perfectly satisfied with Clovis, who, if eccentric and somewhat fish-like, was delightfully free from vices. If a man is perfect in manners and deportment, always civil and obliging, surely you may forgive the small drawbacks which go with the visionary and the bookworm. The bluff soldier would have had him drink and gamble more, just to show that he was human and a man, and be less fond of mysterious societies. But as Clovis had himself remarked, we must take people as we find them, and be content with mercies vouchsafed. Why! The marquis might have turned out an incorrigible rake; have squandered large sums coaxed from his wife on low theatrical hussies. Thank goodness, he showed no signs of breaking out in that direction; and it was not until the _soirée intime_ at the palace that it came home to the doting father that there might be something amiss in the _ménage_. Gabrielle had looked so unaccountably distressed and confused. She was concealing something--what? Was the placid marquis an ogre in private? Of course not. As he strolled home the maréchal made up his mind to pump Toinon on the morrow, and, from hints ingeniously extracted from that astute damsel, severely catechise his daughter. CHAPTER III. INVESTIGATION. Who was Toinon? A very important personage. Foster-sister and confidential abigail to the Marquise de Gange, the two were as united as if they had indeed been sisters. Of pretty dark-eyed roguish Toinon, neither the lacqueys, nor pages, nor hairdressers could make anything. When they exposed their flame for her edification she was irreverent enough to laugh. Tapping the swelling bosom, of whose outline she was justly proud, she would declare with a merry peal, that it was an empty casket. The organ which they professed to covet was no longer there, having been surrendered to the safe custody of a certain young man at Lorge. She had left it behind on purpose, lest some of these enterprising kitchen-beaux should steal it unawares. Whereabouts was Lorge, one gibed, that he might run and fetch the treasure? Lorge, she replied, with mock seriousness, was a gloomy chateau on the Loire, home of rats and bats, of which the less one saw the better. He who would venture thither in search of that missing organ of hers would have to break a lance with Jean Boulot, a stalwart, honest gamekeeper, who would thrust the invader down an _oubliette_ without compunction, to vanish for evermore. When the worthy maréchal called at the Hotel de Gange, as was his daily wont, and, instead of making at once for his daughter's boudoir, turned aside into the tiny chamber where Toinon sat and worked, that damsel started and turned red. Brought up side by side with Gabrielle, she entertained a deep veneration for the old soldier. For him as for the marquise, she would have worked her fingers to the bone; have cheerfully submitted to any penance; and now her conscience tingled guiltily, for she knew that she deserved a lecture. Doubtless it had come to the ears of de Brèze that when last the family was at Lorge, she and big Jean Boulot had plighted troth together. The maréchal would, of course, rate her soundly for her folly, since with her advantages she might have done much better than throw herself away upon a peasant. Jean was a fine fellow, blunt and obstinate, but sincere, given to thinking for himself, but he was only a servant, half-gamekeeper, half-bailiff, and many a well-to-do farmer would have been too glad to place pretty Toinon at the head of his table. This was bad enough; but worse remained behind. Since it had been imprudently encouraged by the king, that plaguy Third Estate had been giving itself airs, flaunting its arrogant pretensions and propounding its ridiculous demands from every country cabaret. The absurd ant stood erect upon its hill with threatening mandibles. Mere yokels were presuming to chatter in village market-places, to discuss matters which concerned their betters, to express opinions of their own which were sadly lacking in respect; and somehow they escaped the lash. Such impudence caused proper-minded and cultured persons to shiver in dismay. If we turn swine into lap-dogs, we shall certainly regret our foolishness. The old maréchal, who hated Lorge, detested it more than ever, when he found that the evil leaven had penetrated into far Touraine, and was not slow in expressing his views with regard to the ant upon the hill. "Life is a game of give and take," he said, "in which the unscrupulous always take too much, unless kept well in hand. Peasants should have no individual opinions, but humbly follow their masters." Now, was it not a shocking thing that Jean Boulot, who ought to have meekly bowed his head at the very mention of aristocracy, should be insolent enough to make rude remarks about the upper class under the shadow of ancestral Lorge? It was reported to the maréchal that his paid servant had harangued his cronies under the village tree, and had used pestilent expressions anent the local magnates. He received prompt warning that on a repetition of the offence he would lose his place, whereupon he was said to have remarked, with a broad grin, that soon there would be no place to lose. And Toinon, foster-sister and confidential abigail, had absolutely betrothed herself in secret to this abandoned wretch! It was awful; but when we give ourselves away, how shall we recover the gift? She determined to bring her lover to a proper frame of mind before confessing what she had done. She wrote commenting sharply on the escapade, imploring her betrothed to reform, lest haply he should share the gruesome fate which she was informed awaited democrats. To this he had replied in an independent and flippant manner, which foreshadowed a thorny future. "My darling," he had the assurance to write, "never fear for me. If all masters were like ours, instead of being selfish tyrants, we should all be peaceable and happy; but, alas, the innocent minority must, for the general good, submit to suffer for the guilty. France, asleep too long, is slowly waking. National sovereignty, spell-bound for centuries, has yawned and stretched itself, and fools would oppose, to combat the champions of Liberty, the flickering will of a weak king! War, my dearest, it will have to be, for we must wade to the goal through blood. God gives justice to men only at the price of battles!" A nice sort of letter, this, for one who was almost a de Brèze to receive from her affianced husband! How quickly she destroyed the tell-tale scrap which she had hoped to be able to exhibit. These high-flown periods were not his own. With rough and homely fist he had copied this pinchbeck fervour. He must have taken to frequenting one of those horrid, odious clubs that were springing up like fungi, be consorting with abominable demagogues. There were some firebrands about who were beginning to be known as Jacobins. Surely honest Jean would never become so depraved as to join that cohort? Would it be wise as well as loyal to send this lover packing--to disclaim at once both him and his pestilent opinions? No doubt it would, but in love matters who is wise? Toinon loved her big, blunt, honest Jean, and if he adored his darling as he delightfully vowed he did, it was her place to exert her influence to bring him to a better mind. On the very next visit to Lorge, she would rate him soundly, drag him by force out of the mire, cleanse his soiled wool, and produce in triumph the errant sheep clean and quite respectable. But if the maréchal knew all about it, and was here now to administer a jobation, what course should she pursue? It was a feeling of guilt and a resolve to fight that brought the becoming flush to Toinon's cheek. It was not, however, to denounce an undeserving swain who was a democrat that the maréchal strode into her room, and hearkening to his discourse she felt relieved. After listening to the tale of his suspicions the girl sat pondering with her work upon her lap gazing idly at a long string of gilt sedans that were crawling in the direction of the Tuileries. The marquis unkind to his wife? Yes and no. He was a singular man, the marquis, made up, more than most, of contradictory and opposing elements. He was apparently self-contained, complete in himself, needing no sympathetic help; and yet he was a weak and undecided man, and these require support. To Toinon he was a riddle, for it had struck her once or twice that the passions of which he seemed to be bereft might be only dormant; that the crust in which he was enveloped might need but a touch for him to burst his cerements, and show that he was a mortal after all. Was he deceitful--playing a part for a deliberate purpose? No. Toinon thought not; there was no motive for comedy. What she did feel certain of was this. If he was in a trance, as she half suspected, it must be by some other hand than Gabrielle's that he would eventually be aroused. He was an instrument which she had not the skill to play upon. Had not the faithful abigail watched the pair for years? As month followed month they had drifted further asunder and were still drifting. The estrangement to the wife was torture; the husband it affected not. In her pain she lowered herself to "scenes"--exhaled herself in wearisome complaints. The Maréchal de Brèze was shocked and distressed. Torture, scenes, complaints! And he had been thanking heaven that there was no blur on the mirror of their happiness. He would take his son-in-law to task; pour out upon him the appalling vials of his indignation; bring him to his knees repentant. Toinon sagely shook her head. "Place not the finger twixt bark and tree," dryly observed the sapient maiden. "The paled ashes of affection may not be made to glow again by scoldings. She is an angel--the best of women--but too apt sometimes to figure as a _femme incomprise_. All may come right in time, for he is a well-meaning man if difficult to live with." Then Toinon travelled off on the sea of conjecture. Was he a good man or not? "Upon my word," she declared at last, "after six years of watching I cannot tell what he is. A colourless nonentity? I can hardly think so. There are people with whom we have been in close communion half our lives, and whom we believe we know down to the finger-tips. Then, hey! Presto! They suddenly do something unexpected, and we find that we never knew them at all!" "But with such a wife as Gabrielle," urged the maréchal, chafing. "Young, pure, sweet, rich, beautiful. Gracious powers! Was the man marble? What more could mortal require?" Toinon, except in her own love affairs, could be vastly wise. "Alas, dear master," she said, laughing sadly, "sure you have learned by this time that to some perfection is intolerable? Are we not often impelled, being so imperfect ourselves, to love people for their defects? On account of alluring blemishes we agree to overlook their virtues. You must have known men, chained for life to loveliness, who have adored a freckled fright, and gloated in the joy of contrast over the details of her ugliness." The old soldier looked glumly out of window, silent, whereupon the damsel continued. "Of all the stupid old legends, Beauty and the Beast is the silliest. Why. Many a charming woman would have been disgusted when the hideous wretch turned out a handsome prince. What is at the bottom of _mésalliances?_ Why do cultivated women elope with ignorant domestics; leave home and comfort to consort with a lacquey or a groom? Because to some there is a charm in stooping. The act of uncrowning is in itself a pleasure. Perhaps madame is too perfect for the marquis." The maréchal admitted, by silence, the truth of the shrewd damsel's discourse. In his own time he had had
the frying-pan over it. 'Good ones,' she said. 'I got them at a swell shop near Buckingham Palace; they were outside, just handy. Well, I s'pose them's the last I shall nick; that is a good job.' She then took a jug out of the cupboard. 'I have got sixpence left out of that half-crown I changed yesterday. We have got bread enough, so I will bring in a quart.' The woman nodded. She had of late, as she had told Warbles, quite determined she would not keep the girl much longer with her, but the suddenness with which the change had come about had been so unexpected that as yet she hardly realised it. Sally was a limb, no doubt. She had got quite beyond her control, and although the petty thievings had been at first encouraged by her, the aptness of her pupil, the coolness and audacity with which she carried them out, and the perfect unconcern with which she started on the dangerous operation of changing the counterfeit money, had troubled and almost frightened her. As the girl had said, she had never been kind to her, had often brutally beaten her, and usually spoke of her as if she were the plague of her life, but the thought that she would now be without her altogether touched her keenly, and when the girl returned she found her in tears. 'Hello! what's up?' she asked in surprise. 'You ain't been a drinking as early as this, have you?' for tears were to Sally's mind associated with a particular phase of drunkenness. The woman shook her head. 'Yer don't mean to say as you are crying because I am going?' Sally went on in a changed voice. 'I should have thought there was nothing in the world you would be so pleased at as getting rid of me.' 'I have said so in a passion, may be, Sally. You are a limb, there ain't no doubt of that; but it ain't your fault, and I might have done for you more than I have, if it had not been for drink. I don't know what I shall do without you.' 'It will make a difference in the way of food, though,' the girl said; 'I am a onener to eat: still I don't think you can get rid of the dumps as well as I can. You got two months last time you tried it.' 'It ain't that, Sally, though I dare say you think it is, but I shall feel lonesome, awful lonesome, without you to sit of an evening to talk to. You have been like a child to me, though I ain't been much of a mother to you, and you mayn't believe it, Sally, but it is gospel truth, as I have been fond of you.' 'Have you now?' the girl said, leaning forward eagerly in her chair. 'I allus thought you hated me. Why didn't you say so? I wouldn't have 'greed to go with that man if I had thought as you wanted me. I don't care for the dresses and that sort of thing, though I should like to get taught something, but I would give that up, and if you like I will go by myself and meet him where he said, and give him back that ten pound, and say I have changed my mind and I am going to stop with you.' 'No, it is better that you should go, Sally; this ain't no place for a girl, and I ain't no woman to look after one. I have been a-thinking some months it was time you went; it didn't matter so much as long as you was a kid, but you are growing up now, and it ain't to be expected as you would keep straight in such a place as this; besides, any day you might get nabbed, and three months in quod would finish you altogether. So you see, Sally, I am glad and I am sorry. Warbles ain't the man I would put you in charge of if I had my way. He has told you hisself what he means to do with you, and I would a lot rather you had been going out into service; only of course no one would take you as you are, it ain't likely. Still if you keep your eyes open, and you are a sharp girl, you may make money by it; but mind me, Sally, money is no good by itself, nor fine clothes, nor nothing. 'It was fine clothes and drink as brought me to what I am. I was a nice tidy-looking girl when Warbles first knew me, and if it hadn't been for clothes and drink I might have been a respectable woman, and perhaps missus of a snug public now. Well, perhaps your chances will be as good as mine was. I have two bits of advice to give yer. When you have finished that pint of beer you make up your mind never to touch another drop of it. The second is, don't you listen to what young swells say to yer. You look out for an honest man who wants to make you his wife, and you marry him and make him a good wife, Sally.' The girl nodded. 'That is what I mean to do, and when I get a comfortable home you shall come and live with us.' 'It wouldn't do, Sally; by that time I reckon I shall be lying in a graveyard, but if I wasn't it would not do nohow. No man will put up with a drunken woman in his house, and a drunken woman I shall be to the end of my life--but there, them chops are ready, Sally, and it would be a sin to let them spoil now you have got them.' When the meal was over, and Sally had finished her glass of beer, she turned it over. 'That is the last of them,' she said; 'I don't care for it one way or the other. Now tell me about that cove, who is he?' 'He is what he says--a betting man, and was when I first knew him; I don't know what his real name is, but I don't expect it's Warbles. He was a swell among them when I first knew him, and spent his money free, and used to look like a gentleman. I was in a house at Newmarket at the time, and whenever the races was on I often used to see him. Well, I left there, and did not come across him for two years; when I did, I had just come out of gaol; I had had two months for taking money from the till. I met him in the street, and he says to me, "Hello, Kitty! I was sorry to hear that you had been in trouble; what are you doing?"' 'What should I be doing?' says I; 'there ain't much chance of my getting another situation after what has happened. I ain't a-doing nothing yet, for I met a friend on the day I came out who gave me a couple of quid, but it is pretty nigh gone.' 'Well, look here,' says he, 'I have got a kid upon my hands: it don't matter whose kid it is, it ain't mine; but I have got to keep it. It has been with a woman for the last three years, and she has died. I don't care how it is brought up so as it is brought up; it is nothing to me how she turns out so that she lives. I tell you what I will do. I will give you ten pounds to furnish a room and get into it, and I will pay you five shillings a week as long as it lives; and if you ever get hard up and want a couple of pounds you can have 'em, so as you don't come too often.' 'Well, I jumped at the offer, and took you, and I will say Warbles has been as good as his word. It wasn't long before I was turned out of my lodging for being too drunk and noisy for the house, and it wasn't more than a couple of years before I got pretty nigh as low as this. I had got to know a good many queer ones when I was in the public line, and I chanced to drop across one of them, and when I met him one day he told me he could put me into an easy way of earning money if I liked, but it was risky. I said I did not care for that, and since then I have always been on that lay. For a bit I did very well; I used to dress up as a tidy servant, and go shopping, and many a week I would get rid of three or four pounds' worth of the stuff; but in course, as I grew older and lost my figure and the drink told on me, it got more difficult. People looked at the money more sharply, and I got three months for it twice. I was allus careful, and never took more than one piece out with me at a time, so that I got off several times till they began to know me. You remember the last time I was in--I told you about it, and since then you have been doing it.' 'But what will you do when I am gone?' 'Well, you know, Sally, I gets a bit from men who comes round of an evening and gives me things to hide away under that board. They knows as they can trust me, and I have had five thousand pounds worth of diamonds and things hidden away there for weeks. No one would ever think of searching there for it. I ain't known to be mixed up with thieves, and this court ain't the sort of place that coppers would ever dream of searching for jewels. Sometimes nothing comes for weeks, sometimes there is a big haul; but they pay me something a week regular, and I gets a present after a good thing has been brought off, so you needn't worrit about me. I shan't be as well off as I have been, but there will be plenty to keep me going, and if I have to drink a bit less it won't do me any harm.' 'I wonder you ain't afraid to drink,' Sally said, 'lest you should let out something.' 'I am lucky that way, Sally. Drink acts some ways with some people, and some ways with others. It makes some people blab out just the things they don't want known; it makes some people quarrelsome; it shuts up some people's mouths altogether. That is the way with me. I take what I take quiet, and though the coppers round here see me drunk pretty often they can't never say as I am drunk and disorderly, so they just lets me find my way home as I can.' 'And this man has never said no more about me than he did that first time?' Sally asked. 'Why should he go on paying for me all this time?' 'He ain't never said a word. I've wondered over it scores of times. These betting chaps are free with their money when they win, but that ain't like going on paying year after year. I thought sometimes you might be the daughter of some old pal of his, and that he had promised him to take care of you. I thought that afterwards he had been sorry he had done so, but would not go back from his word and so went on paying, though he did not care a morsel whether you turned out well or bad. Now I am going out, Sally.' 'You don't want to go out no more to-day,' Sally said decidedly. 'You just stop in quietly these last three days with me.' 'I would like to,' the woman said, 'but I don't think it is in me. You do not know what it is, Sally. When drink is once your master there ain't no shaking it off. There is something in you as says you must go, and you can't help it; nothing but tying you down would do it.' 'Well, look here, give me ninepence. I will go out and get you another quart of beer and a quartern of gin to finish up with. I have never been out for spirits for you before, though you have beat me many a time 'cause I wouldn't, but for these three days I will go. That won't be enough to make you bad, and we can sit here and talk together, and when we have finished it we can turn in comfortable.' The woman took the money from a corner of a stocking, and gave it to Sally, and that night went to bed sober for the first time for months. The next morning shopping began, and Sally, although not easily moved, was awe-struck at the number and variety of the garments purchased for her. The dresses were to be made up by the next evening, when she was to fetch them from the shop herself, as Mrs. Phillips shrunk from giving her address at Piper Court. During the interval Sally suffered much from a regular course of washing and combing her hair. When on the third morning she was arrayed in her new clothes, with hair neatly done up, she felt so utterly unlike herself that a sort of shyness seized her. She could only judge as to her general appearance, but not as to that of her face and head, for the lodging was unprovided with even a scrap of looking-glass. She had no doubt that the change was satisfactory, as Mrs. Phillips exclaimed, 'Fine feathers make fine birds, Sally, but I should not have believed that they could have made such a difference; you look quite a nice-looking gal, and I should not be surprised if you turn out downright pretty, though I have always thought you as plain a gal as ever I seed!' CHAPTER II Epsom racecourse on the Oaks Day. The great event of the day has not yet been run, but the course has been cleared and two or three of the fillies have just come out from the paddock and are making their way at a walk along the broad green track, while their jockeys are chatting together. Luncheons have been hastily finished, and the occupants of the carriages and drags are standing up and beginning for the first time to manifest an interest in the proceedings they have nominally come down to witness. The general mass of spectators cluster thickly by the ropes, while a few take advantage of the clearance of the ground beyond to stroll leisurely along the line of carriages. The shouts of the men with cocoanuts, pincushions, and dolls on sticks, and of those with Aunt Sallys, rifle galleries, and other attractions, are hushed now; their time will not come again until the race is over. Two men, one perhaps thirty, the other some three or four years younger, are among those who pay more attention to the carriages and their occupants than to the approaching race. The younger has a face deeply bronzed by a sun far hotter than that of England. 'How fast they change, Danvers. Six years ago I knew almost every face in the carriages, now I scarcely know one. Who is that very pretty girl standing up on the seat of that barouche?' 'Don't you know? Look at the man she is talking to on the box. That is her father.' 'By Jove! it is Mr. Hawtrey. You don't mean to say that is little Dorothy?' 'Not particularly little, but it is certainly Dorothy Hawtrey.' 'I must go and speak to them, Danvers. You know them too, don't you?' 'Well, considering I meet them out pretty well every night somewhere I ought to do,' the other said, as with slower steps he followed his companion to the carriage. 'How are you, Mr. Hawtrey?' the latter exclaimed, looking up at the man on the box. The gentleman looked down a little puzzled at the warmth with which the words were spoken by one whose face he did not recall. 'Don't you remember me, sir? I am Edward Hampton.' 'Why, Ned, is it you? You are changed out of all knowledge. You have come back almost as dark as a Malay. When did you arrive?' 'I only reached town yesterday evening; looked up Danvers, and was lucky enough to find him at home. He said he was coming down here to-day, and as it was of no use calling on people in town on the Oaks day I came with him.' 'Are you not going to speak to me, Captain Hampton?' 'I am, indeed, Miss Hawtrey, though I confess I did not know you until Danvers told me who you were; and I do not feel quite sure now, for the Miss Hawtrey I used to know never called me anything but Ned.' 'The Miss Hawtrey of those days was a little tomboy in short frocks,' the girl laughed, 'but I do not say that if I find that you are not so changed in reality as you are in appearance, I may not, perhaps, some day forget that you are Captain Hampton, V.C.' She had stepped down from her lofty seat, and was now shaking hands with him heartily. 'It does not seem six years since we said good-bye,' she went on. 'Of course you are all that older, but you don't seem so old to me. I used to think you so big and so tall when I was nine, and you were double that age, and during the next three years, when you had joined your regiment and only came down occasionally to us, you had become quite an imposing personage. That was my last impression of you. Now, you see, you don't look so old, or so big, or so imposing, as I have been picturing you to myself.' 'I dare say not,' he laughed. 'You see you have grown so much bigger and more imposing yourself.' Suddenly Dorothy Hawtrey leapt to her seat again and touched her father on the arm. 'Father,' she said in a whisper, 'that man who has just turned from the crowd and is coming towards us is the one I was speaking to you about a few minutes ago, who had been staring at you with such an evil look.' The man, who had the appearance of a shabby bookmaker, and who carried a satchel slung round his neck, and had the name of 'Marvel' on a broad ribbon round his hat, was now close to the carriage. 'Will you take the odds, Mr. Hawtrey,' he said in a loud voice, 'against any of the horses? I can give you six to one, bar one, against the field.' 'I do not bet,' Mr. Hawtrey said coldly, 'and by your looks it would have been better for you if you had never done so either.' 'I have had a bad run lately,' the man said, 'but I fancy it is going to turn. Will you lay a few pounds for the sake of old times?' Mr. Hawtrey shook his head decidedly. 'I have come down rather in the world,' the man went on insolently, 'but I could pay the bet if I lost it as well as other debts. I have never forgotten how much I owe you.' Hampton took a step forward towards the man, when a policeman stepped out from between their carriage and the next. 'Now, move on,' he said, 'or I will make you, sharp; you are not going to annoy people here, and if you don't go at once I will walk you off to the police tent.' The man hesitated a moment, and then, muttering angrily, moved slowly away to the spot where he had left the dense line of spectators by the ropes. 'Who is he, father?' Dorothy Hawtrey asked; 'does he really know you?' 'Yes, my dear, he is the son of an old steward; he was a wild, reckless young scamp, and when his father died, shortly after I came into the property, I naturally refused to appoint him to the position. He used some very strong language at the time, and threatened me with all sorts of evils. I have met him once or twice since, and he never loses an opportunity of showing that he has not forgiven me; but never mind him now, here come the horses for their preliminary canter.' Captain Hampton and his friend remained by the carriage until the race was over. The former had been introduced by Dorothy to the other three occupants of the carriage--Lady Linkstone, her daughter Mary, and Miss Nora Cranfield. As soon as it was over the crowd broke up, the shouts of the men with the cocoanuts and Aunt Sallys rose loudly, and grooms began to lead up the horses to many of the carriages. 'We are going to make a start at once, Ned,' Mr. Hawtrey said; 'I cannot offer you a seat back to town, but if you have no engagement I hope that you will dine with us. Will you come too, Mr. Danvers?' Danvers was disengaged, and he and Edward Hampton accepted the invitation at once. Ned's father had owned an estate adjoining that of the Hawtreys' in Lincolnshire, and the families had been neighbours for many years. Ned, who was the youngest of three sons had been almost as much at the Hawtreys' as at his own home, as Mr. Hawtrey had a nephew living with him who was just about the lad's age, and during the holidays the two boys were always together. They had entered the army just at the same time, but James Hawtrey had, a few months after he went out to India, died of fever. 'Who was the man who came up and spoke to them five minutes before the race started?' he asked Danvers as they strolled away together. 'There were two or three of them.' 'I mean the man who said it was too bad, Dorothy not coming down on his drag.' 'That is Lord Halliburn; he is very attentive there, and the general opinion is that it will be a match.' 'He didn't look as if he had much in him,' Hampton said, after a pause. 'He has a title and a very big rent roll, and has, therefore, no great occasion for brains; but in point of fact he is really clever. He is Under-Secretary for the Colonies, and is regarded as a rising young peer. He is not a bad fellow at all, I believe; keeps a few racers but does not bet, and has no vices as far as I have ever heard. That is his drag; he drives a first-rate team.' 'Well, I hope he is a good fellow,' Captain Hampton said shortly. 'You see I never had a sister of my own. That little one and I were quite chums, and I used to look upon her almost in the light of a small sister, and I should not like to think of her marrying anyone who would not make her happy.' 'I should think she has as fair a chance with Halliburn as with most men,' Danvers said. 'I know a man who was at Christ Church with him. He said that he was rather a prig--but that a fellow could hardly help being, brought up as he had been--but that, as a whole, he was one of the most popular men of his set. Now we may as well be walking for the station--that is, if you have had enough of it.' 'I am quite ready to go. After all, an English racecourse makes but a dull show by the side of an Indian one. The horses are better, and, of course, there is no comparison between the turnouts and the dresses of the women, though they manage to make a brave show at the principal stations; but as far as the general appearance of the crowd goes, you are not in it here. The natives in their gay dresses and turbans give a wonderfully light and gay appearance to the course, and though, possibly, among quite the lower class they may not all be estimable characters, at least they do not look such a pack of unmitigated ruffians as the hangers-on of an English racecourse. That was a nice specimen who attacked Hawtrey.' 'Yes, the fellow had a thoroughly bad face, and would be capable, I should say, of any roguery. It is not the sort of face I should expect to see in the dock on a charge of murder or robbery with violence, but I should put him down as an astute rogue, a crafty scoundrel, who would swindle an old woman out of her savings, rob servant girls or lads from the country by means of specious advertisements, or who in his own line would nobble a horse or act as the agent for wealthier rogues in getting at jockeys and concocting any villainous plan to prevent a favourite from winning. Of course, I know nothing of the circumstances under which he lost his place with Hawtrey, but there is no doubt that he has cherished a bitter hatred against him, and would spare no pains to take his revenge. If Hawtrey owned racehorses I should be very shy of laying a penny upon them after seeing that fellow's face.' 'Well, as he does not own racehorses the fellow has no chance of doing him a bad turn; he might forge a cheque and put Hawtrey's name to it, but I should say he would have some difficulty in getting any one to cash it.' There were at dinner that evening only the party who had been in the barouche, Danvers, Hampton, and Sir Edward Linkstone. 'I wish there had been no one else here this evening,' Dorothy Hawtrey said to Captain Hampton before dinner, 'there is so much to talk about. First, I want to hear all you have been doing in India, and next, we must have a long chat over old times; in fact, we want a cozy talk together. Of course you will be tremendously engaged just at present, but you must spare me a long morning as soon as you possibly can.' 'I suppose I am not going to take you into dinner?' 'No, Sir Edward Linkstone does that. We cannot ask him to take in his daughter or Nora Cranfield, who is staying at his house, and besides, it would not be nice. I should not like to be sitting by you, talking the usual dinner talk, when I am so wanting to have a real chat with you. You will take in Mary Linkstone, she is a very nice girl.' The dinner was a pleasant one, and the party being so small the conversation was general. It turned, however, a good deal on India, for Sir Edward Linkstone had been Judge of the Supreme Court at Calcutta, and had retired just about the time that Hampton had gone out there. After the ladies had left the room, Danvers remarked to their host: 'That was an unpleasant-looking character who accosted you just before the race started for the Oaks, Mr. Hawtrey.' 'Yes; I don't know that I have many enemies, beyond perhaps some fellows, poachers and others, whom I have had to commit for trial, but I do consider that fellow to be a man who would injure me if he could. His father, John Truscott was my father's steward, or agent as it is the fashion to call them now, on his estate in Lincolnshire. He had been there for over thirty years, and was a thoroughly trustworthy and honourable man, a good agent, and greatly liked by the tenants as well as by my father. As you may know, I came into the estates when I came of age. My father had died two years before. Well, I knew that Truscott had had a good deal of trouble with his son, who was three or four years older than myself. 'Truscott kept a small farm in his own hands, and he made a hobby of breeding blood stock. Not to any great extent; I think he had only some five or six brood mares, but they were all good ones. I think he did very well by them; certainly some of the foals turned out uncommonly well. Of course he did not race them himself, but sold them as yearlings. As it turned out it was unfortunate, for it gave his son a fancy for the turf. I suppose it began by his laying bets on the horses they had bred, then it went on and he used to attend racecourses and get into bad company, and I know that his father had more than once to pay what were to him heavy sums to enable him to clear up on settlement day. I don't know, though, that it would have made much difference, the fellow might have gone to the bad anyhow. He had always a shifty, sly sort of look. About four years after I came into the estates I was down in Lincolnshire at our place, when Truscott was taken ill, and I naturally went to see him. '"I don't think I shall be long here, Mr. Hawtrey," he said, "and you will have to look out for another steward. I used to hope that when my time came for giving up work my son would step into my shoes. He has plenty of brains, and as far as shrewdness goes he would make a better steward than I have ever done. For the last year, since I began to fail, he has been more at home and has done a good deal of my work, and I expect he reckons on getting my place, but, Mr. Hawtrey, you must not give it to him. It is a hard thing for a father to say, but you could not trust him." 'I felt that myself, but I did not like to admit it to the old man, and I said: '"I know he has been a bit wild, Truscott, but he may have seen that he was behaving like a fool, and as you say he has been helping you more for the last year, he may have made up his mind to break altogether from the life he has been leading." '"It is not in him, sir," he said. "I could forgive his being a bit wild, but he is not honest. Don't ask me what he has done, but take my word for it. A man who will rob his own father will rob his employer. I have done my best for your father and you; no man can say that John Truscott has robbed him, and I should turn in my grave if our name were dishonoured down here. You must not think of it, sir; you would never keep him if you tried him; it would be a pain to me to think that one of my blood should wrong you, as I know, surely, Robert would do, and I implore you to make a complete change, and get some man who will do the estate justice." 'Of course I assented; indeed, I had heard so much of the fellow's doings that I had quite made up my mind that when his father retired I would look for a steward elsewhere. At the same time I know that if the old man had asked me to try him for a time, I should have done so. A week later John Truscott died, and the day after his funeral, which I, of course, attended, his son came up to the house. Well, it was a very unpleasant business; he seemed to assume that, as a matter of course, he would succeed his father, and pointed out that for the last year he had, in fact, carried on the estate for him. I said that I did not doubt his ability, but that I had no idea of making a man who was a frequenter of racecourses, and who, I knew, bet so heavily that his father had had to aid him several times, manager of the estate. 'He answered that he had had his fling, and would now settle down steadily. Of course, after what his father had said I was obliged to be firm. When he saw that there was no chance of altering my decision he came out in his true colours; broke out in the most violent language, and had I not been a good deal more powerful man than he was I believe he would have struck me. At last I had to ring the bell and order the footman to turn him out. He cooled down suddenly, and deliberately cursed me, swearing that he would some day be revenged upon me for my ingratitude to his father, and the insult I had passed upon him in thus refusing to appoint him after the thirty years' services the old man had rendered me. I have no doubt he thoroughly meant what he said, but naturally, I never troubled myself about the matter. 'The threats of a disappointed man seldom come to anything, and as there was no conceivable way in which he could injure me his menaces really meant nothing. I have come across him four or five times since. I dare say that I should have met him oftener were I a regular attendant on racecourses, but it is years since I have been to one, and only did it to-day because Dorothy had set her heart on seeing the Oaks for the first time. However, whenever I have met him he has never failed to thrust himself upon me, and to show that his animosity is as bitter as it was on the day that I refused to appoint him steward. He left my neighbourhood at once, turned the stock into money, and as I know that he came into three or four thousand pounds at his father's death he had every chance of doing well. I believe that he did do well on the turf for a time, but the usual end came to that. When I met him last, some seven or eight years ago, I happened to be with a member of the Jockey Club who knew something of the fellow. He told me that he had been for a time a professional betting man, but had become involved in some extremely shady transactions, and had been warned off the turf, and was now only to be seen at open meetings, and had more than once had a narrow escape of being lynched by the crowd for welshing. From his appearance to-day it is evident that he is still a hanger-on of racecourses. I saw he had the name of Marvel on his hat. I should say that probably he appears with a fresh name each time. I think the chance of meeting him has had something to do with my giving up going to races altogether. It is not pleasant being insulted by a disreputable-looking scoundrel, in the midst of a crowd of people.' 'He has never done you any harm, Mr. Hawtrey?' Captain Hamilton asked, 'because certainly it seemed to me there was a ring of triumphant malice in his voice.' 'Certainly not, to my knowledge,' Mr. Hawtrey replied. 'Once or twice there have been stacks burnt down on the estate, probably the work of some malicious fellow, but I have had no reason for suspecting Truscott, and indeed, as the damage fell on the tenant and not on me, it would have been at best a very small gratification of spite, and I can hardly fancy he would have gone to the trouble and expense of travelling down to Lincolnshire for so small a gratification of his ill-will to me. Besides, had he had a hand in it, it would have been the stables and the house itself that would have been endangered.' 'The same idea struck me that occurred to Hampton,' Danvers said, 'but I suppose it was fancy. It sounded to me as if he had already paid, to some extent, the debt he spoke of, or as if he had no doubt whatever that he should do so in the future.' The subject dropped, but when, after leaving, Hampton went into the Club to which Danvers belonged, to smoke a cigar, he returned to it. 'I can't help thinking about that fellow Truscott. It is evident, from what Hawtrey says, that he has never done him any serious harm, and I don't see how the rascal can possibly do so; but I am positive that the man himself believes that he either has done or shall be able to do so.' 'That was the impression I had too, but there is never any telling with fellows of that class. The rogue, when he is found out, either cringes or threatens. He generally cringes so long as there is a chance of its doing him any good, then, when he sees that the game is altogether up, he threatens; it is only in one case in ten thousand that the threats ever come to anything, and as twenty years have gone by without any result in this case we may safely assume that it is not one of the exceptions. 'Do you remember Mrs. Hawtrey?' 'Yes, I remember her well. The first year or two after their marriage, Hawtrey had a place near town. I think she had a fancy that Lincolnshire was too cold for her. They came down when I was about
Children's Hospital, Great Ormond Street, London. Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. Late Examiner in Surgery at the Universities of Cambridge, London and Durham. Author of _A Manual of Anatomy for Senior Students_. Liver: _Surgery of Liver and Gall Bladder_. E. Pr. EDGAR PRESTAGE. Special Lecturer in Portuguese Literature in the University of Manchester. Examiner in Portuguese in the Universities of London, Manchester, &c. Commendador, Portuguese Order of S. Thiago. Corresponding Member of Lisbon Royal Academy of Sciences, Lisbon Geographical Society, &c. Author of _Letters of a Portuguese Nun_; _Azurara's Chronicle of Guinea_; &c. Lobo, F. R.; Lopes, Fernão. E. R. L. SIR EDWIN RAY LANKESTER, K.C.B., F.R.S., D.SC. Hon. Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford. Director of the Natural History Departments of the British Museum, 1898-1907. President of the British Association, 1906. Professor of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy in University College, London, 1874-1890. 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JOHN HENRY FREESE, M.A. Formerly Fellow of St John's College, Cambridge. Leo VI. (_Emperor of the East_). J. Hl. R. JOHN HOLLAND ROSE, M.A., LITT.D. Lecturer on Modern History to the Cambridge University Local Lectures Syndicate. Author of _Life of Napoleon I._; _Napoleonic Studies_; _The Development of the European Nations_; _The Life of Pitt_; &c. Las Casas. J. J. L.* REV. JOHN JAMES LIAS, M.A. Chancellor of Llandaff Cathedral. Formerly Hulsean Lecturer in Divinity and Lady Margaret Preacher, University of Cambridge. Langen. J. K. I. JOHN KELLS INGRAM, LL.D. See the biographical article: INGRAM, J. K. Leslie, Thomas E. C. J. Le. REV. JAMES LEGGE, M.A. See the biographical article: LEGGE, JAMES. Lâo-Tsze. J. L. M. JOHN LINTON MYRES, M.A., F.S.A., F.R.G.S. Wykeham Professor of Ancient History in the University of Oxford. Formerly Gladstone Professor of Greek and Lecturer in Ancient Geography, University of Liverpool. Lecturer in Classical Archaeology in University of Oxford. Leleges; Locri (_Greece_). J. L. W. JESSIE LAIDLAY WESTON. Author of _Arthurian Romances unrepresented in Malory_. Lancelot. J. Mu. SIR JOHN MURRAY, K.C.B., F.R.S. See the biographical article: MURRAY, SIR JOHN. Lake. J. M. C. REV. JAMES M. CROMBIE. Author of _Braemar: its Topography and Natural History_; _Lichenes Britannici_. Lichens (_in part_). J. M. G. JOHN MILLER GRAY (1850-1894). Art Critic and Curator of the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, 1884-1894. Author of _David Scott, R.S.A._; _James and William Tassie_. Leech, John. J. P. E. JEAN PAUL HIPPOLYTE EMMANUEL ADHÉMAR ESMEIN. Professor of Law in the University of Paris. Officer of the Legion of Honour. Member of the Institute of France. Author of _Cours élémentaire d'histoire du droit français_; &c. Lettres de Cachet. J. P. P. JOHN PERCIVAL POSTGATE, M.A., LITT.D. Professor of Latin in the University of Liverpool. Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. Fellow of the British Academy. Editor of the _Classical Quarterly_. Editor-in-chief of the _Corpus Poetarum Latinorum_; &c. Latin Literature (_in part_). J. P. Pe. REV. JOHN PUNNETT PETERS, PH.D., D.D. Canon Residentiary, P. E. Cathedral of New York. Formerly Professor of Hebrew in the University of Pennsylvania. Director of the University Expedition to Babylonia, 1888-1895. Author of _Nippur, or Explorations and Adventures on the Euphrates_; _Scriptures, Hebrew and Christian_. Lagash; Larsa. J. S. JAMES SULLY, LL.D. See the biographical article: SULLY, JAMES. Lewes, George Henry (_in part_). J. Si. JAMES SIME, M.A. (1843-1895). Author of _A History of Germany_; &c. Lessing (_in part_). J. S. F. JOHN SMITH FLETT, D.SC., F.G.S. Petrographer to the Geological Survey. Formerly Lecturer on Petrology in Edinburgh University. Neill Medallist of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Bigsby Medallist of the Geological Society of London. Laccolite; Lamprophyres; Laterite; Leucite: _Leucite Rocks_; Limestone. J. S. K. JOHN SCOTT KELTIE, LL.D., F.S.S., F.S.A. (Scot.). Secretary, Royal Geographical Society. Hon. Member, Geographical Societies of Paris, Berlin, Rome, &c. Editor of the _Statesman's Year Book_. Editor of the _Geographical Journal_. Livingstone. J. S. W. JOHN STEPHEN WILLISON, LL.D., F.R.S. (Canada). Editor of _The News_ (Toronto). Canadian Correspondent of _The Times_. Author of _Sir Wilfrid Laurier and the Liberal Party_; &c. Laurier. J. T. Be. JOHN THOMAS BEALBY. Joint-author of Stanford's _Europe_. Formerly Editor of the _Scottish Geographical Magazine_. Translator of Sven Hedin's _Through Asia, Central Asia and Tibet_; &c. Ladoga (_in part_); Livonia (_in part_); Lop-nor. J. T. Br. J. TAYLOR BROWN. Leighton, Robert (_in part_). J. T. C. JOSEPH THOMAS CUNNINGHAM, M.A., F.Z.S. Lecturer on Zoology at the South-Western Polytechnic, London. Formerly Fellow of University College, Oxford. Assistant Professor of Natural History in the University of Edinburgh. Naturalist to the Marine Biological Association. Lamellibranchia (_in part_). J. T. S.* JAMES THOMSON SHOTWELL, PH.D. Professor of History in Columbia University, New York City. Languedoc. J. V.* JULES VIARD. Archivist at the National Archives, Paris. Officer of Public Instruction. Author of _La France sous Philippe VI. de Valois_; &c. Le Maçon. J. W. D. CAPTAIN J. WHITLY DIXON, R.N. Nautical Assessor to the Court of Appeal. Log. J. W. He. JAMES WYCLIFFE HEADLAM, M.A. Staff Inspector of Secondary Schools under the Board of Education. Formerly Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. Professor of Greek and Ancient History at Queen's College, London. Author of _Bismarck and the Foundation of the German Empire_; &c. Lasker. J. W. L. G. JAMES WHITBREAD LEE GLAISHER, M.A., D.SC., F.R.S. Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. Formerly President of the Cambridge Philosophical Society, and the Royal Astronomical Society. Editor of _Messenger of Mathematics_ and the _Quarterly Journal of Pure and Applied Mathematics_. Legendre, A. M.; Logarithm. K. H. KILLINGWORTH HEDGES, M.INST.C.E., M.INST.ELECT.E. Hon. Secretary of the Lightning Research Committee. Author of _Modern Lightning Conductors_; &c. Lightning Conductor. K. S. KATHLEEN SCHLESINGER. Editor of _The Portfolio of Musical Archaeology_. Author of _The Instruments of the Orchestra_. Lituus. L. A. W. LAURENCE AUSTINE WADDELL, C.B., C.I.E., LL.D., M.B. Lieut.-Colonel I.M.S. (retired). Author of _Lhasa and its Mysteries_; &c. Lhasa (_in part_). L. B. LAURENCE BINYON. See the biographical article: BINYON, L. Lawson, Cecil Gordon. L. D.* LOUIS MARIE OLIVIER DUCHESNE. See the biographical article: DUCHESNE, L. M. O. Liberius. L. J. S. LEONARD JAMES SPENCER, M.A. Assistant in the Department of Mineralogy, British Museum. Formerly Scholar of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, and Harkness Scholar. Editor of the _Mineralogical Magazine_. Leadhillite; Lepidolite; Leucite (_in part_); Liroconite. L. T. D. SIR LEWIS TONNA DIBDIN, M.A., D.C.L., F.S.A. Dean of the Arches; Master of the Faculties; and First Church Estates Commissioner. Bencher of Lincoln's Inn. Author of _Monasticism in England_; &c. Lincoln Judgment, The. L. V.* LUIGI VILLARI. Italian Foreign Office (Emigration Dept.). Formerly Newspaper Correspondent in east of Europe. Italian Vice-Consul in New Orleans, 1906, Philadelphia, 1907, and Boston, U.S.A., 1907-1910. Author of _Italian Life in Town and Country_; &c. Leopold II. (_Grand Duke of Tuscany_). M. Br. MARGARET BRYANT. Landor: _Bibliography_; La Sale. M. Ca. MORITZ CANTOR, PH.D. Honorary Professor of Mathematics in the University of Heidelberg. Author of _Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Mathematik_; &c. Leonardo of Pisa. M. H. S. MARION H. SPIELMANN, F.S.A. Formerly Editor of the _Magazine of Art_. Member of Fine Art Committee of International Exhibitions of Brussels, Paris, Buenos Aires, Rome, and the Franco-British Exhibition, London. Author of _History of "Punch"_; _British Portrait Painting to the Opening of the Nineteenth Century_; _Works of G. F. Watts, R.A._; _British Sculpture and Sculptors of To-day_; _Henriette Ronner_; &c. Line Engraving (_in part_). M. N. T. MARCUS NIEBUHR TOD, M.A. Fellow and Tutor of Oriel College, Oxford. University Lecturer in Epigraphy. Joint-author of _Catalogue of the Sparta Museum_. Laconia; Leonidas; Leotychides. M. O. B. C. MAXIMILIAN OTTO BISMARCK CASPARI, M.A. Reader in Ancient History at London University. Lecturer in Greek at Birmingham University, 1905-1908. Leo I.-V. (_Emperors of the East_); Lesbos; Leuctra. M. P.* LEON JACQUES MAXIME PRINET. Formerly Archivist to the French National Archives. Auxiliary of the Institute of France (Academy of Moral and Political Sciences). L'Aubespine. N. G. G. NICHOLAS G. GEDYE. Chief Engineer to the Tyne Improvement Commission. Lighthouse (_in part_). O. Hr. OTTO HENKER, PH.D. On the Staff of the Carl Zeiss Factory, Jena, Germany. Lens. P. A. K. PRINCE PETER ALEXEIVITCH KROPOTKIN. See the biographical article: KROPOTKIN, PRINCE P. A. Ladoga (_in part_); Lithuanians and Letts: _History_; Livonia (_in part_). P. C. M. PETER CHALMERS MITCHELL, M.A., F.R.S., D.SC., LL.D. Secretary to the Zoological Society of London. University Demonstrator in Comparative Anatomy and Assistant to Linacre Professor at Oxford, 1888-1891. Lecturer on Biology at Charing Cross Hospital, 1892-1894; at London Hospital, 1894. Examiner in Biology to the Royal College of Physicians, 1892-1896, 1901-1903. Examiner in Zoology to the University of London, 1903. Life; Longevity. P. C. Y. PHILIP CHESNEY YORKE, M.A. Magdalen College, Oxford. Laud, Archbishop; Lauderdale, Duke of; Leeds, 1st Duke of. P. G. PERCY GARDNER. LITT.D., LL.D., F.S.A. See the biographical article: GARDNER, PERCY. Leochares. P. Gi. PETER GILES, M.A., LL.D., LITT.D. Fellow and Classical Lecturer of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and University Reader in Comparative Philology. Late Secretary of the Cambridge Philological Society. Author of _Manual of Comparative Philology_; &c. L. P. G. H. PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. See the biographical article: Hamerton, PHILIP GILBERT. Line Engraving (_in part_). R. A. S. M. ROBERT ALEXANDER STEWART MACALISTER, M.A., F.S.A. St John's College, Cambridge. Director of Excavations for the Palestine Exploration Fund. Lachish. R. G. RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D. See the biographical article: GARNETT, RICHARD. Leopardi. R. I. P. REGINALD INNES POCOCK, F.Z.S. Superintendent of the Zoological Gardens, London. Leaf-insect; Locust (_in part_). R. J. M. RONALD JOHN MCNEILL, M.A. Christ Church, Oxford. Barrister-at-Law. Formerly Editor of the _St James's Gazette_, London. Lawn Tennis; Leicester, R. Sidney, earl of; Lockhart, George. R. K. D. SIR ROBERT KENNAWAY DOUGLAS. Formerly Professor of Chinese, King's College, London. Keeper of Oriental Printed Books and MSS. at British Museum, 1892-1907. Member of the Chinese Consular Service, 1858-1865. Author of _The Language and Literature of China_; _Europe and the Far East_; &c. Li Hung Chang. R. L.* RICHARD LYDEKKER, F.R.S., F.G.S., F.Z.S. Member of the Staff of the Geological Survey of India, 1874-1882. Author of _Catalogue of Fossil Mammals, Reptiles and Birds in the British Museum_; _The Deer of all Lands_; _The Game Animals of Africa_; &c. Langur; Lemming (_in part_); Lemur; Leopard (_in part_); Lion (_in part_); Litopterna. R. M'L. ROBERT M'LACHLAN. Editor of the _Entomologists' Monthly Magazine_. Locust (_in part_). R. M. B. ROBERT MICHAEL BALLANTYNE. See the biographical article: BALLANTYNE, R. M. Life-boat: _British (in part)_. R. N. B. ROBERT NISBET BAIN (d. 1909). Assistant Librarian, British Museum, 1883-1909. Author of _Scandinavia: the Political History of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, 1513-1900_; _The First Romanovs, 1613-1725_; _Slavonic Europe: the Political History of Poland and Russia from 1469 to 1796_; &c. Ladislaus I. and IV. of Hungary; Laski. R. S. C. ROBERT SEYMOUR CONWAY, M.A., D.LITT. (Cantab.). Professor of Latin and Indo-European Philology in the University of Manchester. Formerly Professor of Latin in University College, Cardiff; and Fellow of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge. Author of _The Italic Dialects_. Latin Language (_in part_); Liguria: _Archaeology and Philology_. R. We. RICHARD WEBSTER, A.M. Formerly Fellow in Classics, Princeton University. Editor of _The Elegies of Maximianus_; &c. Long Island. R. W. C. THE VERY REV. R. W. CHURCH, D.D. See the biographical article: CHURCH, R. W. Lombards: _The Kingdom in Italy_. S. A. C. STANLEY ARTHUR COOK, M.A. Lecturer in Hebrew and Syriac, and formerly Fellow, Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge. Editor for Palestine Exploration Fund. Examiner in Hebrew and Aramaic, London University, 1904-1908. Author of _Glossary of Aramaic Inscriptions_; _The Laws of Moses and the Code of Hammurabi_; _Critical Notes on Old Testament History_; _Religion of Ancient Palestine_; &c. Levites. S. C. SIDNEY COLVIN, LL.D. See the biographical article: COLVIN, SIDNEY. Leonardo da Vinci. St C. VISCOUNT ST CYRES. See the biographical article: IDDESLEIGH, 1ST EARL OF. Liguori. S. D. F. S. REV. STEWART DINGWALL FORDYCE SALMON, M.A., D.D. (1838-1905). Professor of Systematic Theology and Exegesis of the Epistles, U.F.C. College Aberdeen, 1876-1905. Author of _The Parables of our Lord_; &c. Editor of _The International Library of Theology_; &c. Logos (_in part_). S. N. SIMON NEWCOMB, LL.D., D.SC. See the biographical article: NEWCOMB, SIMON. Latitude; Light: _Velocity_. T. As. THOMAS ASHBY, M.A., D.LITT., F.S.A. Director of the British School of Archaeology at Rome. Corresponding Member of the Imperial German Archaeological Institute. Formerly Scholar of Christ Church, Oxford. Craven Fellow, Oxford, 1897. Author of _The Classical Topography of the Roman Campagna_; &c. Labicana, Via; Labici; Lampedusa; Lanciano; Lanuvium; Larino; Latina,
. Seven stories are retold, some from the Old, some from the New Testament. To certain tastes they may seem too elaborately wrought, the author evidently relishes what is gorgeous, and his descriptions of Potiphar’s house are very richly inlaid with ornament, but whatever be the judgment of readers in this respect, there can be no question as to the effective realism of the narratives. Certainly some of the stories will convey both to children and adults fresh and memorable conceptions of Biblical scenes.” MARIE CORELLI =_Patriotism or Self-Advertisement?_= A Social Note on the Transvaal War, 1899-1900. By MARIE CORELLI. Sixth Edition. 4to, sewed, 2d. =_Nebo:_= The Merchant of Susa. A Drama in Three Acts. By A. J. FERREIRA. Small 8vo, hand-made paper, art cloth, gilt, 2s. 6d. nett. =Daily Mail= (Glasgow).--“The story unfolded is very interesting and full of exciting incidents.” =Aberdeen Free Press.=--“A highly readable piece of work, and it would, we feel sure, if suitably mounted and in the hands of capable actors, prove eminently effective on the stage. The action is rapid, there are no diffuse vapourings, and there is ample scope for attractive scenic effect.” =Independent= (Sheffield).--“The Assyrian setting makes a novel background, and there is movement and some striking situations in the play.” =_Ideal Physical Culture_=, And the Truth about the Strong Man. By APOLLO (the Scottish Hercules and Sandow’s Challenger). Fourth Edition. Profusely illustrated, cloth, 2s. 6d. =To-day.=--“It is a very sensible book, and Apollo knows what he is talking about.” =County Gentleman.=--“Will prove useful to aspiring young athletes.” =Westminster Gazette.=--“Those who take an interest in Physical Culture will find the manual instructive and useful.” =Football Echo.=--“‘Ideal Physical Culture’ scatters to the wind much of the nonsense and bunkum written _ad nauseam_ about the strong man, his biceps, his triceps, the muscular fat, and his stupendous feats.” =_The Year Book of the Stage._= Being an annual record of criticisms of all the important productions of the English Stage, with copious Index and complete Cast of each Play recorded. Compiled by L. ARTHUR GREENING. About 260 pages, strongly bound in cloth, 3s. 6d. =_A History of Nursery Rhymes._= By PERCY B. GREEN. This interesting Book is the result of many years research among nursery folklore of all nations, and traces the origin of nursery rhymes from the earliest times. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. =Morning Post.=--“Contains a great deal of pleasing information concerning the origin of our nursery songs, fairy tales and games … and the author treats his subject in a manner which is both entertaining and intelligible.” =World.=--“Will be found entertaining by everybody.” =Spectator.=--“The reader will find much curious matter in Mr Green’s volume.” =Examiner= (Cork).--“A comprehensive and thoroughly interesting book.” =Madame.=--“A most interesting book.… To those mothers who have their children round them in the story-telling twilight this book of Mr Green’s should be a treasury of delight.” =_In Quaint East Anglia._= Descriptive Sketches. By T. WEST CARNIE. Illustrated by W. S. ROGERS. Long 12mo, cloth, 1s. =Observer.=--“That East Anglia exercises a very potent spell over those who once come under its influence is proved by the case of George Borrow, and all who share in the fascination will delight in this brightly written, companionable little volume.” =Graphic.=--“It is a prettily got up and readable little book.” =Saturday Review.=--“Will be welcomed by all who have come under the charm of East Anglia.” =_A Man Adrift._= Being Leaves from a Nomad’s Portfolio. By BART KENNEDY, Author of “Darab’s Wine-Cup,” “The Wandering Romanoff,” etc. This very entertaining book is a narrative of adventures in all parts of the world. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. Mr ANDREW LANG, in the course of a long and laudatory notice in =Longman’s Magazine=, said:--“It is a strange photograph of rude and violent life. The narrator always carries his life in his fist. He describes, better than any other writer, the existence of a tramp, and gives an amazing account of the brutality, and even torture, practised on workers in some parts of the United States.… The book is as simple in style as Swift’s writing; a kind of labouring Trelawny might have fathered these _adventures of a younger son_.” Mr RICHARD LE GALLIENNE (in the =Idler=).--“‘A Man Adrift’ has held me as few recent books have power to do. The book is ‘real’ because it has first been really lived, and then been really written. Mr Kennedy’s book has held me, not only by its reality, but by its courage, its pity, its humour, its all-embracing humanity, its quiet fierceness. ‘A Man Adrift’ is a brave book.” =Morning Leader.=--“The record of an adventurous life, when well told, always appeals to the imagination and sympathy of the reader, and ‘A Man Adrift’ is such a record. Presumably the adventures are real; they have all the vividness of reality at all events, and one follows the hardships and wanderings of the narrator with keen interest.… Mr Kennedy is to be congratulated on his ‘Man Adrift.’” =County Gentleman.=--“This is the book of a strong man. It has vigour, originality and power, and comes as a refreshing change after the maudlin sentimentality of most modern stories.… Mr Kennedy has a characteristic style. He writes in short, crisp sentences that are at once direct and fearless. It is mainly his own story that he tells in this strangely fascinating volume.” =_Woman and the Wits._= Epigrams on Woman, Love, and Beauty. Collected and edited by G. F. MONKSHOOD, Author of “Rudyard Kipling: The Man and His Work,” “Lady Ruby,” etc. New and revised edition. Small 8vo, art vellum, gilt extra, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. =Great Thoughts.=--“The most beautiful book on my table is ‘Woman and the Wits.’… In this lovely volume of about 200 pages some of the wisest, wittiest, tenderest epigrams on woman and on cognate topics to be found in ancient and modern times, have been brought together with taste and judgment.” =Ladies’ Pictorial.=--“The compiler of this dainty little volume has produced a veritable lucky bag for the dipper who is anxious to find something smart and clever.” =Madame.=--“A book that should find favour on every woman’s table.” =Literary World.=--“The epigrams are well selected, and should form a perfect armoury for any young bachelor put up to propose the toast of ‘The Ladies.’… There is good variety too.” =_Dress in a Nutshell._= By “R.” A Booklet every woman who wishes to dress tastefully should certainly possess. Crown 16mo, cloth, 1s.; sewed, 6d. =_Weeds and Flowers._= Poems by WILLIAM LUTHER LONGSTAFF, Author of “The Tragedy of the Lady Palmist.” Crown 8vo, art cloth, gilt extra, gilt top, 2s. 6d. nett. =Sun.=--“Mr Longstaff has real fire and passion in all of his work. He has a graceful touch and a tuneful ear. There is exquisite melody in his metre.” =Times.=--“He has passion and energy enough to stock half a dozen average minor poets.… But he has in him something of the stuff of which poetry--as opposed to verse--is made.” =Court Circular.=--“Unquestionably a poet of a very high order--musical, suggestive, imaginative and picturesque. ‘In the Times to come’ is a beautiful poem, full of suggestion, with a subtle melody of its own. How well Mr Longstaff can write is seen in ‘A Hopeless Dawn.’ It is the work of a true poet. Mr Longstaff’s poems deserve more extended notice. There is art in his work, and music; and his verse is full of promise. Mr Longstaff’s muse is frank and sincere, and many of his readers will forgive her for not posing as a prude.” =_Ballads of Ghostly Shires._= By GEORGE BARTRAM, Author of “The People of Clopton,” “The White-headed Boy,” etc. Dedication accepted by Theodore Watts-Dunton. Small 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. nett. =Speaker.=--“We hail with the greatest pleasure Mr George Bartram’s ‘Ballads of Ghostly Shires.’” =Academy.=--“His descriptive passages have the true poetic touch, and a fresh grace about them. He is, in truth, well worth reading, and has the distinction of writing narrative verse well in a lyric age. It is a breezy, picturesque, taking little book.” =Athenæum.=--“Mr Bartram has the gift of description, and his vigorous narrative verse moves swiftly.” =Sunday Sun.=--“Remarkable and beautiful poems. Enjoyable reading.” =_Village Life and Feeling._= Songs and Verses. By RUPERT UPPERTON, the Ploughboy Poet. 2s. 6d. nett. =Scotsman.=--“This is a pleasant and an interesting volume of healthy English verse.… The book deserves to be read, and will interest any curious lover of poetry.” =North Star.=--“Amusing and instructive poems illustrative of village life. Those who are on the lookout for new recitations should examine this volume.” =Glasgow Herald.=--“His humour and satire are genial and well-meaning. He is not without sentiment, and his lyrical pieces will be heartily appreciated.” =Morning Leader.=--“There is some good stuff and not a little quaint feeling in the verses of Rupert Upperton.” =St Andrew’s.=--“Many a simple soul--and there are millions of such in our land--utterly unable to appreciate the poetry of the critics, will find itself charmed, purified and elevated by the kindly muse of Mr Upperton. Messrs Greening & Co. have done their work well, and enshrined these ‘woodnotes wild’ in a beautiful piece of letterpress.” HER MAJESTY’S EDITION =_Rip Van Winkle_=, together with “THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.” By WASHINGTON IRVING, and the Complete Literary and Theatrical History of the Story by S. J. ADAIR FITZ-GERALD, Author of “Fame, the Fiddler.” With Portraits of Her Majesty’s Theatre Company, and Illustrations by W. G. MEIN. Dedicated to Mr H. Beerbohm-Tree. Crown 8vo, art cloth, decorative cover by Will Smart, top edge gilt, 2s. =Bookman.=--“This edition of Irving’s famous legends is in every way to be commended. Type, paper and illustrations are good, and Mr Fitz-Gerald adds to the originals the stage and literary history of ‘Rip van Winkle,’ which is well worth reading.” =Pall Mall Gazette.=--“A pretty and interesting little book.” =Topical Times.=--“A really interesting memento, and it costs only 2s.--a perfectly absurd price for a book of this size and quality. Beautifully bound in green cloth, red lettered, it is well printed, and artistically illustrated by Mr Will G. Mein.” Greening’s Masterpiece Library “A handsome and artistic series.” _Vide_ Press. =_Ringan Gilhaize._= A Romance of the Covenanters. By JOHN GALT. Edited, with an Introduction, by Sir GEORGE DOUGLAS. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. =St James’s Gazette.=--“The splendid panorama it gives of some of the most stirring and far-reaching events in Scottish history, and the skill shown by the author in so arranging his materials that the historic is always subordinated to the human interest, render the book in every way worthy of revival.” =_Rasselas._= A Romance of Abyssinia. By Dr JOHNSON. Edited, with an Introduction, by JUSTIN HANNAFORD. Illustrated by W. S. ROGERS. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. =Morning Leader.=--“Well printed and pleasant to handle.” =Globe.=--“A very acceptable edition. The text is set forth in large, bold type; Mr W. S. Rogers supplies eight graphic illustrations, while Mr Justin Hannaford furnishes an introduction in which the literary history of the story is pleasantly recounted.” =_Vathek._= An Eastern Romance. By WILLIAM BECKFORD. Edited, with an Introduction, by JUSTIN HANNAFORD. Illustrated by W. S. ROGERS. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 3s 6d. =Saturday Review.=--“A work of vivid and picturesque imagination, great power, and no small originality. It is saturated with the fragrance and voluptuousness of the East.” =Outlook.=--“In the way of Eastern romances ‘Vathek’ has always easily stood first. The present edition is handsomely got up, and contains several well-executed illustrations.” =_The Black Tulip._= A Romance of Old Holland. By ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Newly done into English, with Introduction, by S. J. ADAIR FITZ-GERALD. Illustrated by JOHN HASSALL. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. =Sun.=--“A delightful edition artistically bound and attractively got up. Mr John Hassall is seen at his best in the illustrations.” =Glasgow Herald.=--“We recommend it, not only as one of the most interesting, but as without exception, and in every sense of the word, the most readable of Dumas’s works.” =_The Epicurean._= A Tale of Mystery and Adventure. By THOMAS MOORE. Edited, with an Introduction, by JUSTIN HANNAFORD. Illustrated by WILL SMART. 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. =Bookman.=--“An interesting, well-produced reprint of Moore’s popular Eastern romance.” =Great Thoughts.=--“It is as bright, and fresh and entertaining as when first it took the reading world by storm in 1827.” =Whitehall Review.=--“This reprint is welcome, and the manner in which it is printed, bound and produced, is a credit to the eminent firm who are responsible for the edition.” =_Salathiel;_= or, The Immortal. A Wonderful Romance of Old Palestine. By Dr GEO. CROLY. Edited and revised, with an Introduction, by Rev. T. A. SEED. Illustrated by W. G. MEIN. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (In preparation.) =_Asmodeus;_= or, The Devil on Two Sticks. An Illustrated Edition of the Celebrated Novel by LE SAGE, Author of “Gil Blas.” Edited by JUSTIN HANNAFORD. Illustrated by JOHN HASSALL. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (In preparation.) =_Colomba._= A Corsican Romance. By PROSPER MERIMÉE, Author of “Carmen.” Edited, with an Introduction, by Rev. T. A. SEED. Illustrated by W. S. ROGERS. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (In preparation.) _Several well-known and popular works by great writers are in active preparation for this artistic series of masterpieces._ POPULAR FICTION =An Obscure Apostle.= A Powerful and Dramatic Tale, translated from the Polish of Mdme. ORZESZKO by Count S. C. de SOISSONS. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. =Saturday Review.=--“An absorbing and delightful story, and we are sure it will be read with the greatest pleasure by those who can best appreciate the merits of the finer kinds of fiction.” =British Weekly.=--“A good story, dramatic, poetic and pathetic.” =Daily Graphic.=--“An admirable translation of a fine, intensely human tragedy. One reads it from first to last entirely fascinated.” =Bookman.=--“A deeply impressive story it is, and if Madame Orzeszko has written others equally good, we must hope Count de Soissons will translate them for us.” =St James’s Gazette.=--“A curious and interesting story, which, apart from its power, deserves notice because of the novelty of its material. The jaded appetite, weary of English drawing-rooms, Californian mines, and Indian flirtations, will here find an absolutely fresh _entourage_ to a very remarkable story.… It is pictorial, poetic and dramatic.” =The Modern Argonauts.= A Novel. 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bring it to the front of the mouth, break the skin by pressing it against his teeth, and blow the sand, sugar or chalk out in a perfectly dry condition. This is repeated until all six have been exhausted, when the trick is said to be concluded. If some skeptical investigator wishes to examine the juggler’s mouth, he merely swallows the skins. The sugars or chalks were also swallowed in the first place. Hindu jugglers will frequently swallow far more disagreeable things than skins for the sake of a few rupees. THE DIVING DUCK. There is a very simple, and yet a very puzzling, little trick known as the “diving duck.” The juggler places a shallow bowl upon the ground, which he proceeds to fill with water. When this is done the conjuror places a miniature artificial duck in the water, then retires from the bowl about two feet, and begins to play upon his tom-tom, etc. Soon the duck is seen to move, and very soon it dives in a very natural manner. Whenever the hand of one of the onlookers approaches the duck it dives out of sight, reappearing as soon as the hand recedes. Finally, the duck is taken out of the water, and immediately handed for examination, when it is found to be perfectly free from trickery or preparation of any sort. The bowl is also emptied of its water and again shown to the onlookers. [Illustration] The secret in this case is, again, simplicity itself. In the bottom of the shallow pail or pot there is a miniature hole bored, and through this is passed a thread or hair. To the inner end of this hair is attached a small dab of wax. The other end extends along the ground, and the trick is always performed on soil the colour of which will make the hair invisible. The duck is fastened to the inner end of the hair by means of the bit of wax; and it can readily be seen that, when the pail is filled with water, the duck will dive beautifully every time the hair is pulled by the conjuror, and will rise to the surface when this pressure is released. This is the complete secret of the diving duck. In order to conceal the fact that the pot leaks, the conjuror first sprinkles some water on the ground; or fills the bowl so full (apparently by accident) that it overflows. This conceals the fact that water is gradually running away through the small hole in the bottom of the pail. THE JUMPING EGG. In another trick sometimes exhibited the reverse method may be said to be employed—since the egg or small rabbit employed jumps out of the water, at the word of command, and lands on the ground, right outside the pail. No thread or hair is used in this case, however, as might be supposed, and onlookers sometimes come right up to the pail and stand over it while the rabbit makes his marvellous leap. The juggler may be any distance from the pail at the time, and even held by onlookers to prevent any action on his part. [Illustration] The conjurer begins by filling the little pail with water. After he has done this he pours into the water some coloured sand, and stirs it up with a stick, when the sand rises to the top of the water, forming a sort of curtain, and preventing anyone from seeing what is within the pail. In the act of stirring the water, pouring in the sand, etc., the juggler has secretly introduced into the pail a thin but broad spring, bent over so as to form an almost complete circle. The two ends of the spring are kept apart by means of a piece of sugar, so that, when this sugar melts, the spring will be released and will spring open with a sudden jerk. It is upon this spring that the egg or little rabbit is placed. The juggler goes through various incantations, playing the tom-tom, etc., until the sugar melts, when the spring will fly uncoiled, and the little rabbit will be ejected from the water precipitously. If the pail is emptied later on, the juggler simply turns the pail upside down, thus allowing the water to escape, and retaining the spring by means of his finger. THE BEANS AND SCORPION TRICK. The trick that is sometimes seen of changing three beans into a scorpion or a snake is simplicity itself—is so simple, in fact, as to be seldom exhibited. It is sometimes seen, however. The juggler has a box, containing two compartments. In the upper one the beans are kept, while the lower one contains the scorpion or the little snake. These compartments are separate, and either can be opened at will. The conjuror puts the three beans into the hand of one of the audience and tells him to hold them. He then asks him to open his hand again to see if they are still there. The conjuror takes them out of this person’s hand, exhibits them to the audience, and puts them back in the box. He asks the spectator to again hold his hand out; and, when he has done so, the conjuror deftly opens the lower box and allows the snake or scorpion to fall into his hand. Naturally this person jumps back, and, in the excitement, the conjuror has ample opportunity to exchange the box used for another, without preparation. THE BASKET AND BIRDS TRICK. [Illustration] Another trick sometimes seen is the following. The conjuror exhibits a basket, some 18 inches in diameter and 14 inches high. A stone is placed under the basket, which is then inverted over it. Soon the basket is lifted, and a snake or scorpion is found beneath it, while the stone has disappeared. The snake is thrown into a bag which the conjuror carries with him, and the basket replaced on the ground. After some manipulation the basket is again raised, and this time some ten or fifteen little birds walk out from beneath it. Apparently nothing could be more extraordinary! And yet the explanation is simplicity itself. In the act of inverting the basket the first time the conjuror introduced the snake or scorpion and removed the stone—very much in the same way as Western conjurors extract and replace the cork balls in the cups-and-balls trick. The little birds are all contained in a black cloth bag; and are introduced into the basket when everyone’s attention is called to the snake or scorpion, left on the ground, after the basket is raised the first time. The conjuror introduces his hands beneath the basket and opens the cloth bag; when the little birds are free to make their escape. The bag can be disposed of at any convenient moment. THE BALL OF COTTON TRICK. Mr. Charles Bertram, writing in _Mahatma_ (a conjuror’s magazine) for February, 1900, said: “The most startling trick I ever saw was done by a man who was performing some of the little tricks while the mango-tree was growing. He took a little ball of rough cotton, about the size of a walnut, and threw the ball to a woman who formed one of the party of those who were assisting him. The jerk unravelled about two yards, and she broke the end off and kept the ball. The conjuror placed the end which he held into his mouth, and by a deep breath the cotton flew into his mouth and he appeared to chew it. Then he borrowed a penknife from me, and with a big blade made as though he would stab himself in the throat, the woman preventing him with some show of excitement; but presently, turning her back, the man seized the opportunity to plunge the knife into his stomach, and that he did very well. He then put his hand under the loose linen shirt he was wearing and began to draw out the piece of cotton. [Illustration] “When he had drawn out nearly as much as the length of the piece which had been broken off, he lifted his shirt slightly and showed the end of the cotton apparently embedded in the skin. He then took the knife and moved it upward against the skin as if he were pressing out the last bit of thread, which was tinged with red, as if with blood. “This was really an admirably executed little trick, although by no means difficult. The sucking in of the cotton is skilful, but with a very little practice I was able to do the same thing, and so can anyone else, the only precaution to be taken being to prevent the end coming into contact with the back of the throat, for if it did it would bring on an attack of coughing. “Of course the chewing of the cotton is merely a method of secreting it, and another piece of cotton of similar length is rolled up previously and put in its place with the end coloured with some paint. A little brown material is put over the skin with a scrap of cotton, perhaps a quarter of an inch attached to it, so that it really looks as though it were sticking up out of the skin, and the upward movement of the knife scrapes this off, and it can easily be gotten away at a convenient time. This is hardly a trick for an English drawing-room.” Frequently we see an Indian juggler remove his turban, double it, cut it into two pieces, and finally join them together again. I think it will be a sufficient explanation if I state that this feat is performed precisely in the same manner as the familiar string trick—in which a piece of string, cut in halves is restored to its original condition. As every schoolboy knows this trick, I shall not dwell upon it here. THE BRASS BOWL TRICK. Mr. S. S. Baldwin describes a very ingenious trick he once saw performed.[1] A juggler brought forward a brass bowl, which he showed empty. He filled this with cold water, placing a little piece of ice in the water, to show it was really cold. He then covered the bowl for a few moments with a borrowed handkerchief, made passes over the bowl, played on his tom-tom, etc. Soon he removed the handkerchief, and the water was found to be scalding hot, as was verified by placing the fingers in the water. [1] _Secrets of Mahatma Land Explained._ pp. 45-46. In this case the bowl was of a peculiar construction. The sides of the bowl were double; and so also was the foot upon which it stood. When brought forward the space between the two sides of the vessel was filled with the boiling water, while the lower space was empty. While covering the bowl with the handkerchief the juggler found occasion to scratch off a wax pellet, covering an air-hole, this allowing the cold water to run down into the empty space in the foot of the bowl. By scratching off a second wax pellet on the side of the bowl the hot water is made to run into the body of the bowl until it finds its own level. It is difficult to explain this on paper, but the principle upon which it rests is well known to Western conjurors, and is the basis of several good illusions performed by them. There are several minor tricks that I should like to consider, but cannot for lack of space. Thus, M. Jacolliot states that he saw a small stick, placed upon the top of a vessel of water, move in all directions, and finally sink to the bottom of the vessel at the command of the fakir. He suggests that “the fakir, upon charging the small piece of wood with fluid, might perhaps have increased its weight so as to make it heavier than water.”[2] Personally I should be inclined to think that the piece of wood was manipulated by means of a hair, somewhat after the manner of the “diving duck,” described above. Baldwin saw a somewhat similar trick in Zululand. In this case the conjuror threw a branch of wood upon the surface of the river, which promptly proceeded to swim upstream! He afterwards discovered that, in this case, the trick was effected by means of long black threads, in the hands of hidden assistants. [2] _Occult Science in India._ p. 236. SNAKE-CHARMING. I now pass on to consider, very briefly, the feats of snake-charming that are so frequently exhibited. I do not doubt that much—perhaps the majority—of that which is exhibited by snake charmers is genuine, with one exception; the fangs of the serpent are invariably extracted. Hindus are exceedingly ingenious in extracting fangs, stings, etc., and I have heard from many independent sources that snakes are never exhibited in public unless their fangs are first extracted. It may interest the reader to learn that my sister, when a little girl, took a great liking to bees, and desired to play with them. My father and mother were in Calcutta at the time, and bees were plentiful. Accordingly, my father commissioned one of the servants to extract the stings from a number of bees, which he did with great skill, and apparently with no lasting injury to the bee. My sister then had a whole room full of bees to play with, while quite free from danger herself. I mention this to show how ingenious Hindus are in handling reptiles and insects of the sort, thus proving that it would be quite possible for them to extract the fangs from any serpent. The fangs once extracted, and the snakes fed upon milk, and perhaps more or less drugged and charmed by the music, we can very readily see that it would be no very difficult feat for the snake charmer to handle them in any manner desired. It is a well-known fact that snakes and many other animals may be hypnotised and rendered more or less cataleptic by means of passes and various manipulations. Sextus, in his _Hypnotism_, devotes many pages to this subject. It is probable that, when a snake is stiffened out to its fullest extent, and remains stiff, it cannot be distinguished from a stick at a first casual glance. Perhaps this may bear some resemblance to the priests who performed before Pharaoh, “changing their rods to serpents” before his eyes. At all events, I quote the following passage, which seems to bear a distinct resemblance to that incident, and has the advantage of being “recorded at first hand,” and is by no means so “remote” as the other tale! It runs as follows: “Sitting one morning on the verandah, an aged magician approached and asked permission to perform some of his tricks. As I was in a humor to be amused, I told him to go ahead. He asked me to loan him the walking-stick which I carried. He waved this over his head two or three times and exclaimed: ‘No good; too big; can’t do,’ and handed the stick back to me, which, as I grasped it, changed into a loathsome, wriggling snake in my hand. Of course, I immediately dropped it. The magician smiled, picked up the snake by the middle, whirled it around in the air, and handed it back to me. As I refused to take it, he said, ‘All right, no bite,’ and behold it was my stick.”[3] I think the similarity of narrative should at least prove suggestive and interesting. [3] _Secrets of Mahatma Land Explained._ p. 49. VOLUNTARY INTERMENT. Let us now turn to a consideration of those feats of “voluntary interment” so often referred to. Take, _e.g._, the famous case of the Fakir of Lahore, who, at the instance of Runjeet Singh, and under the supervision of Sir Claude Wade, was interred in a vault for a period of six weeks. Doubtless the details are familiar to most of my readers. The fakir’s ears and nostrils were filled with wax, and he was then placed in a bag, then deposited in a wooden box which was securely locked, and the box was deposited in a brick vault which was carefully plastered up with mortar and sealed with the Rajah’s seal. A guard of British soldiers was then detailed to watch the vault day and night. At the end of the prescribed time the vault was opened in the presence of Sir Claude and Runjeet Singh, and the fakir was restored to consciousness. Now, though I shall not say that a feat of this kind is impossible, far better evidence will have to be forthcoming than an account such as the above, in order to gain credence. How was the bag tied in which the fakir was placed? Who made the box? What guarantee have we that there was no outlet from the vault than by means of the door? In short, there are so many methods of escape that such a badly recorded account as the above should carry no weight with us whatever. What makes me skeptical of such accounts is the fact that, in one instance of which I know the details, it was discovered that a fakir, after being buried in a grave several feet beneath the ground, managed to make good his escape by means of a tunnel especially built, leading into a hollow tree, through which the fakir escaped under cover of the darkness. In this case, the grave was well sealed, and it was certain that the fakir did not escape in that manner. He was however, discovered that night in the hut of a relative of his, quietly sleeping. Investigation showed that the grave had been dug in a certain spot, and that there was only a thin wall of earth between the end of the coffin, which hinged inwards, and the other tunnel, which communicated with a previously prepared tunnel, leading to the hollow tree, and so to air and freedom. Every interment was made in the same spot, and Europeans were being constantly taken in by the same trick. In the face of this piece of evidence I may be excused for being somewhat skeptical as to genuine feats of the kind. And when we turn for analogy to cases of induced hypnotic trance, lasting over a number of days, we find that here, too, there is much fraud—much more than the public supposes—though I must not be understood as saying that trances of this character are not well authenticated. But I _do_ assert that in the majority of public tests, in which the “professor” keeps his subject asleep for seven days, etc., much fraud enters into the case. I do not say that it is all fraud from beginning to end, but there is an element of fraud in the case, which it might be as well to make plain in this place. The average method of procedure would be about as follows: A good somnambule is selected who is in good physical health, and he is prepared by giving him a good dose of castor oil or rhubarb the day before the test. But little must be given the subject to eat or drink for a few hours before he is put to sleep. He is hypnotized several times daily before the test and suggestions made that he will not wake, that he cannot wake until permission is given him to do so, etc. He is then put to sleep carefully, and forcible suggestions given—that he cannot awaken, etc. The subject is then placed in his coffin, plenty of fresh air being allowed to get to him, and he is covered with mosquito netting if the test is in the summer-time, and flies, mosquitoes, etc., are numerous. The subject is turned over from side to side frequently, especially after the second day, and repeated suggestions are given him to sleep, that he cannot wake, and so forth. The subject will not be in an equally deep sleep all the time. Some of the time he will be actually asleep, of course, but he will be very near to waking much of the time, after the first two or three days, and must be kept asleep by constant suggestion. When the night comes on and it gets cold and there are fewer persons watching, the performer makes this the excuse for covering the subject with a blanket. Under this blanket is concealed a rubber bottle containing water, and a sandwich or two are dropped in the coffin at the same time. These the subject invariably eats. I am not asserting this here for any other purpose than to show that these so-called “seven-day sleeps” bear no real resemblance to the cases in which men have been interred for days and weeks at a time, and throw the other cases into stronger relief in consequence. In view of the facts above noted, and of the fraud that is known to exist in some of these cases, I think we are entitled to ask for a considerable amount of first-hand evidence before we need consider seriously these cases of long-continued interment. THE ROPE TRICK. There remains for our consideration only one other well-known feat performed by Hindu fakirs or yogis, and that is the famous “rope exploit,” before referred to. I looked up the evidence for this performance with great care when writing my _Physical Phenomena of Spiritualism_, contrasting the evidence for hallucination in this and kindred tests with certain of the _seances_ with D. D. Home, to ascertain if there were any similarity between the two. I think that I cannot do better than to quote the case as therein given. I accordingly quote from pp. 389-93 of that book. After referring to Dr. Hodgson’s article in _Proceedings_, S.P.R., Vol. IX., pp. 354-66, the account goes on: “But the most interesting part of Dr. Hodgson’s paper is his consideration of the alleged feats of levitation and the famous rope-climbing exploit, both of which are probably too well known to my readers to need describing here. The nature of the former of these phenomena is explained by its title; the second is the famous feat in which a rope is thrown into the air by the performer, where it stays—suspended by some unknown power—and gradually stiffens, allowing a small boy, the fakir’s assistant, to climb up it, and finally disappear in the clouds. Soon, the legs and arms of the boy are seen to fall to the ground, then the head, and finally the trunk falls to earth, all before the astonished and horrified gaze of the onlookers! These pieces gradually join themselves together, and re-form the boy’s body, whole as it was at first, and the boy goes on his way rejoicing! “Of the levitation I shall not speak now, beyond stating that it is recorded in several of the books mentioned, as previously stated. The value of the testimony will be variously estimated by individuals, partly according to their preconceived ideas of the limits of the possible, and partly according to their familiarity with the evidence that has been collected in various works on the subject. As I have considered this question of levitation elsewhere I shall dismiss it for the time being, and turn to the feat that most particularly interests us in relation to this question of hallucination and its possibilities. “It need hardly be pointed out, I believe, that if this feat were ever witnessed by Europeans at all (_i.e._, if the whole thing is not a myth), and certain individuals imagined they actually witnessed it, the effect was the result of an hallucination, and not the result of seeing what actually took place. It need scarcely be said that the nature of the trick, if trick it is (the suspension of the rope by some unknown power, the ascent of the boy into the clouds, the tumbling down to earth of the separate members, and, finally the joining together of these into a live form again), would forbid any such performance taking place in reality—except on the stage, _e.g._, when appropriate apparatus can be arranged to perform this feat—an illusion of this sort being mentioned in _Mahatma_, Vol. III., No. 5, November, 1899. If such a performance were even witnessed, therefore, it must have been the result of some sort of hallucination, possibly hypnotic, which the onlooker was experiencing at the time. The question, therefore, narrows itself down to this: was the onlooker hallucinated? “Several reported instances seemed to show conclusively that such _was_ the case, it being stated that (particularly in one case which the writer quoted from his own experience) the photographic plate of a camera revealed that nothing of the sort had transpired. The person witnessing the performance had actually seen it, as described, while the photographic plate, which cannot be hypnotised and so share in the hallucination supposedly induced, showed that the performance had not taken place at all. Such was the story, at least, which reached a very large portion of the reading public—so large, indeed, that this is the explanation that is given of this illusion whenever it is mentioned, as if it were a fact past all questioning! “Dr. Hodgson, in criticising these articles, pointed out that the illustrations reproduced to back up the story (supposedly photographs) were in reality, _woodcuts_, and consequently were not what they purported to be at all, and served to throw a grave suspicion on the story _in toto_. Later, it came to light that this story was concocted by its author, and had no basis in fact whatever.[4] Dr. Hodgson actually doubted if the phenomenon had ever been witnessed at all, or even if any person _thought_ he had witnessed it, rather inclining to the belief that these stories were invariably made up ‘out of whole cloth,’ and had no real basis in fact, even that the sitters were hallucinated, as it is stated they were. Several cases have lately come to light, however, particularly a recent and well recorded one,[5] which would seem to show that the stories have at least some basis in truth. I shall accordingly consider the cases as if they actually existed, merely pointing out that such performances are extremely rare, even if they exist at all. Dr. Hodgson never witnessed the illusion, nor could he find anyone who had a first-hand account to offer him. ‘Even Colonel Olcott,’ says Dr. Hodgson, ‘a faithful servant of Mme. Blavatsky... told me, after several years’ residence in India, he had never witnessed the rope-climbing performance.’[6] At the same time Dr. Hodgson was willing to admit that the story might have originated because of some hypnotically induced hallucination, akin to those induced by our Western hypnotists. The evidence, as it stands, is certainly inconclusive, in any case, and though there is a certain analogy between these performances and those of D. D. Home, _e.g._, the inaccuracy in recording, the doubt surrounding these phenomena can be said to offer no direct support to the theory of hallucination in Home’s case, which must stand or fall on its own merits. It can derive no real support from the performances of Oriental conjurors. [4] _Journal_ S. P. R., Vol. v., pp. 84-86; 195. [5] _Journal_ S. P. R., Vol. xii., pp. 30-31. [6] _Proceedings_ S. P. R., Vol. ix., p. 362. I do not at all agree with Mr. J. N. Maskelyne’s “Explanation” of this feat, however (see his pamphlet “The Fraud of Theosophy Exposed, and the Miraculous Rope Trick of the Indian Jugglers Explained” pp. 23-24). “On the subject of Oriental magic generally I cannot do better than to conclude this summary in the words of Dr. Hodgson, to be found in the article so frequently referred to already. In summing up the evidence for the supernormal in these performances, he says: “‘I conclude, therefore, that, in spite of the strong assertions of a distinguished conjuror, we have before us no real evidence to the manifestation by Indian jugglers or fakirs of any marvels beyond the power of trickery to produce.... The conjuror’s mere assertion that certain marvels are not explicable by trickery is worth _just as much_ as the savant’s mere assertion that they _must be_ so explicable—just as much, and no more.’” From all that has been said, I think we shall be justified in concluding that the vast majority of feats performed by the Hindu fakirs present no evidence whatever of the supernormal, but are, on the contrary, clearly due and traceable to trickery. It is highly probable that every one of their well-known tricks are such only, and involve no occult powers, nor do they warrant our belief in the operation of any forces “other than those known to physical science.” Are we to conclude, therefore, that nothing is to be gained by a study of the East and its phenomena? I think we should scarcely be justified in doing that, since there seem to be many phenomena witnessed there that are well worthy of serious consideration. The snake charming is one of these; the cases of prolonged trance probably present many interesting phenomena, from any point of view; the rope exploit has at least its psychological interest; and there are many cases of levitation reported, which are worthy of serious consideration. “Baron Seeman,” a conjuror, describes in his book, _Around the World with a Magician and a Juggler_ (pp. 54-6), a case of levitation; and various other conjurors have described the same thing. M. Jacolliot, in his _Occult Science in India_, before referred to, has recorded a number of most interesting experiences with a Hindu fakir. He obtained raps, telekinetic phenomena, independent writing, levitations, materialisations, playing upon an accordion, etc. Strange to say it was through the instrumentality of the very _same_ fakir that Seeman obtained his experiences in levitation (Covindasamy). And it will be noticed further that _all these phenomena_—so different from the usual tricks of the Hindu fakir—_bear a close resemblance to the mediumistic phenomena witnessed in our countries_. That is a most striking fact, and at once places them on a different level from most of the tricks exhibited by Hindu fakirs, which are certainly tricks and nothing more. There _may_ be genuine mediums among the Hindus; but the phenomena witnessed in such cases are of a very different type from those usually observed. This fact at once tends to discredit the ordinary tricks exhibited, and strengthens the evidence for the phenomena that so closely resemble the occurrences witnessed in the presence of occidental mediums. It shows us, at all events, that some, and perhaps much, good may come from a close study of these wonder workers; and that, in investigating them, “we must not,” as Mr. Frank Podmore expressed it, “for the second time throw away the baby with the water from the bath.” * END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HINDU MAGIC * Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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, but also much that had been lost was regained. 'At the close of the tenth century the emperors of Constantinople possessed the best and greatest part' of Southern Italy, part of Sicily, the whole of what is now called the Balkan Peninsula, Asia Minor, with some parts of Syria and Armenia.[27] [Footnote 25: Hallam, _Mid._Ages_, chap. vi.] [Footnote 26: Ameer Ali, Syed, _Short_Hist._Saracens_, p. 442] [Footnote 27: Hallam, chap. vi.; Gibbon, chap. li.] Neglect of sea-power by those who can be reached by sea brings its own punishment. Whether neglected or not, if it is an artificial creation it is nearly sure to disappoint those who wield it when it encounters a rival power of natural growth. How was it possible for the Crusaders, in their various expeditions, to achieve even the transient success that occasionally crowned their efforts? How did the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem contrive to exist for more than three-quarters of a century? Why did the Crusades more and more become maritime expeditions? The answer to these questions is to be found in the decline of the Mohammedan naval defences and the rising enterprise of the seafaring people of the West. Venetians, Pisans, and Genoese transported crusading forces, kept open the communications of the places held by the Christians, and hampered the operations of the infidels. Even the great Saladin failed to discern the important alteration of conditions. This is evident when we look at the efforts of the Christians to regain the lost kingdom. Saladin 'forgot that the safety of Phoenicia lay in immunity from naval incursions, and that no victory on land could ensure him against an influx from beyond the sea.'[28] Not only were the Crusaders helped by the fleets of the maritime republics of Italy, they also received reinforcements by sea from western Europe and England, on the 'arrival of _Malik_Ankiltar_ (Richard Coeur de Lion) with twenty shiploads of fighting men and munitions of war.' [Footnote 28: Ameer Ali, Syed, pp. 359, 360.] Participation in the Crusades was not a solitary proof of the importance of the naval states of Italy. That they had been able to act effectively in the Levant may have been in some measure due to the weakening of the Mohammedans by the disintegration of the Seljukian power, the movements of the Moguls, and the confusion consequent on the rise of the Ottomans. However that may have been, the naval strength of those Italian states was great absolutely as well as relatively. Sismondi, speaking of Venice, Pisa, and Genoa, towards the end of the eleventh century, says 'these three cities had more vessels on the Mediterranean than the whole of Christendom besides.'[29] Dealing with a period two centuries later, he declares it 'difficult to comprehend how two simple cities could put to sea such prodigious fleets as those of Pisa and Genoa.' The difficulty disappears when we have Mahan's explanation. The maritime republics of Italy--like Athens and Rhodes in ancient, Catalonia in mediæval, and England and the Netherlands in more modern times--were 'peculiarly well fitted, by situation and resources, for the control of the sea by both war and commerce.' As far as the western Mediterranean was concerned, Genoa and Pisa had given early proofs of their maritime energy, and fixed themselves, in succession to the Saracens, in the Balearic Isles, Sardinia, and Corsica. Sea-power was the Themistoclean instrument with which they made a small state into a great one. [Footnote 29: _Ital._Republics_, English ed., p. 29.] A fertile source of dispute between states is the acquisition of territory beyond sea. As others have done before and since, the maritime republics of Italy quarrelled over this. Sea-power seemed, like Saturn, to devour its own children. In 1284, in a great sea-fight off Meloria, the Pisans were defeated by the Genoese with heavy loss, which, as Sismondi states, 'ruined the maritime power' of the former. From that time Genoa, transferring her activity to the Levant, became the rival of Venice, The fleets of the two cities in 1298 met near Cyprus in an encounter, said to be accidental, that began 'a terrible war which for seven years stained the Mediterranean with blood and consumed immense wealth.' In the next century the two republics, 'irritated by commercial quarrels'--like the English and Dutch afterwards--were again at war in the Levant. Sometimes one side, sometimes the other was victorious; but the contest was exhausting to both, and especially to Venice. Within a quarter of a century they were at war again. Hostilities lasted till the Genoese met with the crushing defeat of Chioggia. 'From this time,' says Hallam, 'Genoa never commanded the ocean with such navies as before; her commerce gradually went into decay; and the fifteenth century, the most splendid in the annals of Venice, is till recent times the most ignominious in those of Genoa.' Venice seemed now to have no naval rival, and had no fear that anyone could forbid the ceremony in which the Doge, standing in the bows of the _Bucentaur_, cast a ring into the Adriatic with the words, _Desponsamus_te,_Mare,_in_signum_veri_perpetuique_dominii_. The result of the combats at Chioggia, though fatal to it in the long-run, did not at once destroy the naval importance of Genoa. A remarkable characteristic of sea-power is the delusive manner in which it appears to revive after a great defeat. The Persian navy occasionally made a brave show afterwards; but in reality it had received at Salamis a mortal wound. Athens seemed strong enough on the sea after the catastrophe of Syracuse; but, as already stated, her naval power had been given there a check from which it never completely recovered. The navy of Carthage had had similar experience; and, in later ages, the power of the Turks was broken at Lepanto and that of Spain at Gravelines notwithstanding deceptive appearances afterwards. Venice was soon confronted on the sea by a new rival. The Turkish naval historian, Haji Khalifeh,[30] tells us that, 'After the taking of Constantinople, when they [the Ottomans] spread their conquests over land and sea, it became necessary to build ships and make armaments in order to subdue the fortresses and castles on the Rumelian and Anatolian shores, and in the islands of the Mediterranean.' Mohammed II established a great naval arsenal at Constantinople. In 1470 the Turks, 'for the first time, equipped a fleet with which they drove that of the Venetians out of the Grecian seas.'[31] The Turkish wars of Venice lasted a long time. In that which ended in 1503 the decline of the Venetians' naval power was obvious. 'The Mussulmans had made progress in naval discipline; the Venetian fleet could no longer cope with theirs.' Henceforward it was as an allied contingent of other navies that that of Venice was regarded as important. Dyer[32] quotes a striking passage from a letter of Æneas Sylvius, afterwards Pope Pius II, in which the writer affirms that, if the Venetians are defeated, Christendom will not control the sea any longer; for neither the Catalans nor the Genoese, without the Venetians, are equal to the Turks. [Footnote 30: _Maritime_Wars_of_the_Turks_, Mitchell's trans., p. 12.] [Footnote 31: Sismondi, p. 256.] [Footnote 32: _Hist._Europe_, i. p. 85.] SEA-POWER IN THE SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES The last-named people, indeed, exemplified once more the rule that a military state expanding to the sea and absorbing older maritime populations becomes a serious menace to its neighbours. Even in the fifteenth century Mohammed II had made an attack on Southern Italy; but his sea-power was not equal to the undertaking. Suleymân the Magnificent directed the Ottoman forces towards the West. With admirable strategic insight he conquered Rhodes, and thus freed himself from the danger of a hostile force on his flank. 'The centenary of the conquest of Constantinople was past, and the Turk had developed a great naval power besides annexing Egypt and Syria.'[33] The Turkish fleets, under such leaders as Khair-ad-din (Barbarossa), Piale, and Dragut, seemed to command the Mediterranean including its western basin; but the repulse at Malta in 1565 was a serious check, and the defeat at Lepanto in 1571 virtually put an end to the prospect of Turkish maritime dominion. The predominance of Portugal in the Indian Ocean in the early part of the sixteenth century had seriously diminished the Ottoman resources. The wealth derived from the trade in that ocean, the Persian Gulf, and the Red Sea, had supplied the Mohammedans with the sinews of war, and had enabled them to contend with success against the Christians in Europe. 'The main artery had been cut when the Portuguese took up the challenge of the Mohammedan merchants of Calicut, and swept their ships from the ocean.'[34] The sea-power of Portugal wisely employed had exercised a great, though unperceived, influence. Though enfeebled and diminishing, the Turkish navy was still able to act with some effect in the seventeenth century. Nevertheless, the sea-power of the Turks ceased to count as a factor of importance in the relations between great states. [Footnote 33: Seeley, _British_Policy_, i. p. 143.] [Footnote 34: Whiteway, p. 2.] In the meantime the state which had a leading share in winning the victory of Lepanto had been growing up in the West. Before the union of its crown with that of Castile and the formation of the Spanish monarchy, Aragon had been expanding till it reached the sea. It was united with Catalonia in the twelfth century, and it conquered Valencia in the thirteenth. Its long line of coast opened the way to an extensive and flourishing commerce; and an enterprising navy indemnified the nation for the scantiness of its territory at home by the important foreign conquests of Sardinia, Sicily, Naples, and the Balearic Isles. Amongst the maritime states of the Mediterranean Catalonia had been conspicuous. She was to the Iberian Peninsula much what Phoenicia had been to Syria. The Catalan navy had disputed the empire of the Mediterranean with the fleets of Pisa and Genoa. The incorporation of Catalonia with Aragon added greatly to the strength of that kingdom. The Aragonese kings were wise enough to understand and liberal enough to foster the maritime interests of their new possessions.[35] Their French and Italian neighbours were to feel, before long, the effect of this policy; and when the Spanish monarchy had been consolidated, it was felt not only by them, but by others also. The more Spanish dominion was extended in Italy, the more were the naval resources at the command of Spain augmented. Genoa became 'Spain's water-gate to Italy.... Henceforth the Spanish crown found in the Dorias its admirals; their squadron was permanently hired to the kings of Spain.' Spanish supremacy at sea was established at the expense of France.[36] The acquisition of a vast domain in the New World had greatly developed the maritime activity of Castile, and Spain was as formidable on the ocean as in the Mediterranean. After Portugal had been annexed the naval vessels of that country were added to the Spanish, and the great port of Lisbon became available as a place of equipment and as an additional base of operations for oceanic campaigns. The fusion of Spain and Portugal, says Seeley, 'produced a single state of unlimited maritime dominion.... Henceforth the whole New World belonged exclusively to Spain.' The story of the tremendous catastrophe--the defeat of the Armada--by which the decline of this dominion was heralded is well known. It is memorable, not only because of the harm it did to Spain, but also because it revealed the rise of another claimant to maritime pre-eminence--the English nation. The effects of the catastrophe were not at once visible. Spain still continued to look like the greatest power in the world; and, though the English seamen were seen to be something better than adventurous pirates--a character suggested by some of their recent exploits--few could have comprehended that they were engaged in building up what was to be a sea-power greater than any known to history. [Footnote 35: Prescott, _Ferdinand_and_Isabella_, Introd. sects. i. ii.] [Footnote 36: G. W. Prothero, in M. Hume's _Spain_, 1479-1788, p. 65.] They were carrying forward, not beginning the building of this. 'England,' says Sir J. K. Laughton, 'had always believed in her naval power, had always claimed the sovereignty of the Narrow Seas; and more than two hundred years before Elizabeth came to the throne, Edward III had testified to his sense of its importance by ordering a gold coinage bearing a device showing the armed strength and sovereignty of England based on the sea.'[37] It is impossible to make intelligible the course of the many wars which the English waged with the French in the Middle Ages unless the true naval position of the former is rightly appreciated. Why were Crecy, Poitiers, Agincourt--not to mention other combats--fought, not on English, but on continental soil? Why during the so-called 'Hundred Years' War' was England in reality the invader and not the invaded? We of the present generation are at last aware of the significance of naval defence, and know that, if properly utilised, it is the best security against invasion that a sea-surrounded state can enjoy. It is not, however, commonly remembered that the same condition of security existed and was properly valued in mediæval times. The battle of Sluys in 1340 rendered invasion of England as impracticable as did that of La Hogue in 1692, that of Quiberon Bay in 1759, and that of Trafalgar in 1805; and it permitted, as did those battles, the transport of troops to the continent to support our allies in wars which, had we not been strong at sea, would have been waged on the soil of our own country. Our early continental wars, therefore, are proofs of the long-established efficiency of our naval defences. Notwithstanding the greater attention paid, within the last dozen years or so, to naval affairs, it is doubtful if the country generally even yet recognises the extent to which its security depends upon a good fleet as fully as our ancestors did nearly seven centuries ago. The narrative of our pre-Elizabethan campaigns is interesting merely as a story; and, when told--as for instance D. Hannay has told it in the introductory chapters of his 'Short History of the Royal Navy'--it will be found instructive and worthy of careful study at the present day. Each of the principal events in our early naval campaigns may be taken as an illustration of the idea conveyed by the term'sea-power,' and of the accuracy with which its meaning was apprehended at the time. To take a very early case, we may cite the defeat of Eustace the Monk by Hubert de Burgh in 1217. Reinforcements and supplies had been collected at Calais for conveyance to the army of Prince Louis of France and the rebel barons who had been defeated at Lincoln. The reinforcements tried to cross the Channel under the escort of a fleet commanded by Eustace. Hubert de Burgh, who had stoutly held Dover for King John, and was faithful to the young Henry III, heard of the enemy's movements. 'If these people land,' said he, 'England is lost; let us therefore boldly meet them.' He reasoned in almost the same words as Raleigh about four centuries afterwards, and undoubtedly 'had grasped the true principles of the defence of England.' He put to sea and defeated his opponent. The fleet on which Prince Louis and the rebellious barons had counted was destroyed; and with it their enterprise. 'No more admirably planned, no more fruitful battle has been fought by Englishmen on water.'[38] As introductory to a long series of naval operations undertaken with a like object, it has deserved detailed mention here. [Footnote 37: _Armada_, Introd. (Navy Records Society).] [Footnote 38: Hannay, p. 7.] The sixteenth century was marked by a decided advance in both the development and the application of sea-power. Previously its operation had been confined to the Mediterranean or to coast waters outside it. Spanish or Basque seamen--by their proceedings in the English Channel--had proved the practicability of, rather than been engaged in, ocean warfare. The English, who withstood them, were accustomed to seas so rough, to seasons so uncertain, and to weather so boisterous, that the ocean had few terrors for them. All that was wanting was a sufficient inducement to seek distant fields of action and a development of the naval art that would permit them to be reached. The discovery of the New World supplied the first; the consequently increased length of voyages and of absence from the coast led to the second. The world had been moving onwards in other things as well as in navigation. Intercommunication was becoming more and more frequent. What was done by one people was soon known to others. It is a mistake to suppose that, because the English had been behindhand in the exploration of remote regions, they were wanting in maritime enterprise. The career of the Cabots would of itself suffice to render such a supposition doubtful. The English had two good reasons for postponing voyages to and settlement in far-off lands. They had their hands full nearer home; and they thoroughly, and as it were by instinct, understood the conditions on which permanent expansion must rest. They wanted to make sure of the line of communication first. To effect this a sea-going marine of both war and commerce and, for further expansion, stations on the way were essential. The chart of the world furnishes evidence of the wisdom and the thoroughness of their procedure. Taught by the experience of the Spaniards and the Portuguese, when unimpeded by the political circumstances of the time, and provided with suitable equipment, the English displayed their energy in distant seas. It now became simply a question of the efficiency of sea-power. If this was not a quality of that of the English, then their efforts were bound to fail; and, more than this, the position of their country, challenging as it did what was believed to be the greatest of maritime states, would have been altogether precarious. The principal expeditions now undertaken were distinguished by a characteristic peculiar to the people, and not to be found in connection with the exploring or colonising activity of most other great nations even down to our own time. They were really unofficial speculations in which, if the Government took part at all, it was for the sake of the profit expected and almost, if not exactly, like any private adventurer. The participation of the Government, nevertheless, had an aspect which it is worth while to note. It conveyed a hint--and quite consciously--to all whom it might concern that the speculations were 'under-written' by the whole sea-power of England. The forces of more than one state had been used to protect its maritime trade from the assaults of enemies in the Mediterranean or in the Narrow Seas. They had been used to ward off invasion and to keep open communications across not very extensive areas of water. In the sixteenth century they were first relied upon to support distant commerce, whether carried on in a peaceful fashion or under aggressive forms. This, naturally enough, led to collisions. The contention waxed hot, and was virtually decided when the Armada shaped course to the northward after the fight off Gravelines. The expeditions against the Spanish Indies and, still more, those against Philip II's peninsular territory, had helped to define the limitations of sea-power. It became evident, and it was made still more evident in the next century, that for a great country to be strong it must not rely upon a navy alone. It must also have an adequate and properly organised mobile army. Notwithstanding the number of times that this lesson has been repeated, we have been slow to learn it. It is doubtful if we have learned it even yet. English seamen in all ages seem to have mastered it fully; for they have always demanded--at any rate for upwards of three centuries--that expeditions against foreign territory over-sea should be accompanied by a proper number of land-troops. On the other hand, the necessity of organising the army of a maritime insular state, and of training it with the object of rendering effective aid in operations of the kind in question, has rarely been perceived and acted upon by others. The result has been a long series of inglorious or disastrous affairs like the West Indies voyage of 1595-96, the Cadiz expedition of 1625, and that to the Ile de Ré of 1627. Additions might be made to the list. The failures of joint expeditions have often been explained by alleging differences or quarrels between the naval and the military commanders. This way of explaining them, however, is nothing but the inveterate critical method of the streets by which cause is taken for effect and effect for cause. The differences and quarrels arose, no doubt; but they generally sprang out of the recriminations consequent on, not producing, the want of success. Another manifestation of the way in which sea-power works was first observed in the seventeenth century. It suggested the adoption of, and furnished the instrument for carrying out a distinct maritime policy. What was practically a standing navy had come into existence. As regards England this phenomenon was now of respectable age. Long voyages and cruises of several ships in company had been frequent during the latter half of the sixteenth century and the early part of the seventeenth. Even the grandfathers of the men who sailed with Blake and Penn in 1652 could not have known a time when ships had never crossed the ocean, and squadrons kept together for months had never cruised. However imperfect it may have been, a system of provisioning ships and supplying them with stores, and of preserving discipline amongst their crews, had been developed, and had proved fairly satisfactory. The Parliament and the Protector in turn found it necessary to keep a considerable number of ships in commission, and make them cruise and operate in company. It was not till well on in the reign of Queen Victoria that the man-of-war's man was finally differentiated from the merchant seaman; but two centuries before some of the distinctive marks of the former had already begun to be noticeable. There were seamen in the time of the Commonwealth who rarely, perhaps some who never, served afloat except in a man-of-war. Some of the interesting naval families which were settled at Portsmouth and the eastern ports, and which--from father to son--helped to recruit the ranks of our bluejackets till a date later than that of the launch of the first ironclad, could carry back their professional genealogy to at least the days of Charles II, when, in all probability, it did not first start. Though landsmen continued even after the civil war to be given naval appointments, and though a permanent corps, through the ranks of which everyone must pass, had not been formally established, a body of real naval officers--men who could handle their ships, supervise the working of the armament, and exercise military command--had been formed. A navy, accordingly, was now a weapon of undoubted keenness, capable of very effective use by anyone who knew how to wield it. Having tasted the sweets of intercourse with the Indies, whether in the occupation of Portugal or of Spain, both English and Dutch were desirous of getting a larger share of them. English maritime commerce had increased and needed naval protection. If England was to maintain the international position to which, as no one denied, she was entitled, that commerce must be permitted to expand. The minds of men in western Europe, moreover, were set upon obtaining for their country territories in the New World, the amenities of which were now known. From the reign of James I the Dutch had shown great jealousy of English maritime enterprise. Where it was possible, as in the East Indian Archipelago, they had destroyed it. Their naval resources were great enough to let them hold English shipping at their mercy, unless a vigorous effort were made to protect it. The Dutch conducted the carrying trade of a great part of the world, and the monopoly of this they were resolved to keep, while the English were resolved to share in it. The exclusion of the English from every trade-route, except such as ran by their own coast or crossed the Narrow Seas, seemed a by no means impossible contingency. There seemed also to be but one way of preventing it, viz. by war. The supposed unfriendliness of the Dutch, or at least of an important party amongst them, to the regicide Government in England helped to force the conflict. The Navigation Act of 1651 was passed and regarded as a covert declaration of hostilities. So the first Dutch war began. It established our claim to compete for the position of a great maritime commercial power. The rise of the sea-power of the Dutch, and the magnitude which it attained in a short time and in the most adverse circumstances, have no parallel in history. The case of Athens was different, because the Athenian power had not so much been unconsciously developed out of a great maritime trade, as based on a military marine deliberately and persistently fostered during many years. Thirlwall believes that it was Solon who 'laid the foundations of the Attic navy,'[39] a century before Salamis. The great achievement of Themistocles was to convince his fellow-citizens that their navy ought to be increased. Perhaps the nearest parallel with the power of the Dutch was presented by that of Rhodes, which rested largely on a carrying trade. The Rhodian undertakings, however, were by comparison small and restricted in extent. Motley declares of the Seven United Provinces that they 'commanded the ocean,'[40] and that it would be difficult to exaggerate the naval power of the young Commonwealth. Even in the days of Spain's greatness English seamen positively declined to admit that she was stronger than England on the sea; and the story of the Armada justified their view. Our first two Dutch wars were, therefore, contests between the two foremost naval states of the world for what was primarily a maritime object. The identity of the cause of the first and of the second war will be discerned by anyone who compares what has been said about the circumstances leading to the former, with Monk's remark as to the latter. He said that the English wanted a larger share of the trade enjoyed by the Dutch. It was quite in accordance with the spirit of the age that the Dutch should try to prevent, by force, this want from being satisfied. Anything like free and open competition was repugnant to the general feeling. The high road to both individual wealth and national prosperity was believed to lie in securing a monopoly. Merchants or manufacturers who called for the abolition of monopolies granted to particular courtiers and favourites had not the smallest intention, on gaining their object, of throwing open to the enterprise of all what had been monopolised. It was to be kept for the exclusive benefit of some privileged or chartered company. It was the same in greater affairs. As Mahan says, 'To secure to one's own people a disproportionate share of the benefits of sea commerce every effort was made to exclude others, either by the peaceful legislative methods of monopoly or prohibitory regulations, or, when these failed, by direct violence.' The apparent wealth of Spain was believed to be due to the rigorous manner in which foreigners were excluded from trading with the Spanish over-sea territories. The skill and enterprise of the Dutch having enabled them to force themselves into this trade, they were determined to keep it to themselves. The Dutch East India Company was a powerful body, and largely dictated the maritime policy of the country. We have thus come to an interesting point in the historical consideration of sea-power. The Elizabethan conflict with Spain had practically settled the question whether or not the expanding nations were to be allowed to extend their activities to territories in the New World. The first two Dutch wars were to settle the question whether or not the ocean trade of the world was to be open to any people qualified to engage in it. We can see how largely these were maritime questions, how much depended on the solution found for them, and how plain it was that they must be settled by naval means. [Footnote 39: _Hist._Greece_, ii. p. 52.] [Footnote 40: _United_Netherlands_, ii. p. 132.] Mahan's great survey of sea-power opens in 1660, midway between the first and second Dutch wars. 'The sailing-ship era, with its distinctive features,' he tells us, 'had fairly begun.' The art of war by sea, in its more important details, had been settled by the first war. From the beginning of the second the general features of ship design, the classification of ships, the armament of ships, and the handling of fleets, were to remain without essential alteration until the date of Navarino. Even the tactical methods, except where improved on occasions by individual genius, altered little. The great thing was to bring the whole broadside force to bear on an enemy. Whether this was to be impartially distributed throughout the hostile line or concentrated on one part of it depended on the character of particular admirals. It would have been strange if a period so long and so rich in incidents had afforded no materials for forming a judgment on the real significance of sea-power. The text, so to speak, chosen by Mahan is that, notwithstanding the changes wrought in naval _matériel_ during the last half-century, we can find in the history of the past instructive illustrations of the general principles of maritime war. These illustrations will prove of value not only 'in those wider operations which embrace a whole theatre of war,' but also, if rightly applied, 'in the tactical use of the ships and weapons' of our own day. By a remarkable coincidence the same doctrine was being preached at the same time and quite independently by the late Vice-Admiral Philip Colomb in his work on 'Naval Warfare.' As a prelude to the second Dutch war we find a repetition of a process which had been adopted somewhat earlier. That was the permanent conquest of trans-oceanic territory. Until the seventeenth century had well begun, naval, or combined naval and military, operations against the distant possessions of an enemy had been practically restricted to raiding or plundering attacks on commercial centres. The Portuguese territory in South America having come under Spanish dominion in consequence of the annexation of Portugal to Spain, the Dutch--as the power of the latter country declined--attempted to reduce part of that territory into permanent possession. This improvement on the practice of Drake and others was soon seen to be a game at which more than one could play. An expedition sent by Cromwell to the West Indies seized the Spanish island of Jamaica, which has remained in the hands of its conquerors to this day. In 1664 an English force occupied the Dutch North American settlements on the Hudson. Though the dispossessed rulers were not quite in a position to throw stones at sinners, this was rather a raid than an operation of recognised warfare, because it preceded the formal outbreak of hostilities. The conquered territory remained in English hands for more than a century, and thus testified to the efficacy of a sea-power which Europe had scarcely begun to recognise. Neither the second nor the third Dutch war can be counted amongst the occurrences to which Englishmen may look back with unalloyed satisfaction; but they, unquestionably, disclosed some interesting manifestations of sea-power. Much indignation has been expressed concerning the corruption and inefficiency of the English Government of the day, and its failure to take proper measures for keeping up the navy as it should have been kept up. Some, perhaps a good deal, of this indignation was deserved; but it would have been nearly as well deserved by every other government of the day. Even in those homes of political virtue where the administrative machinery was worked by or in the interest of speculating capitalists and privileged companies, the accumulating evidence of late years has proved that everything was not considered to be, and as a matter of fact was not, exactly as it ought to have been. Charles II and his brother, the Duke of York, have been held up to obloquy because they thought that the coast of England could be defended against a naval enemy better by fortifications than by a good fleet and, as Pepys noted, were 'not ashamed of it.' The truth is that neither the king nor the duke believed in the power of a navy to ward off attack from an island. This may have been due to want of intellectual capacity; but it would be going a long way to put it down to personal wickedness. They have had many imitators, some in our own day. The huge forts which stud the coast of the United Kingdom, and have been erected within the memory of the present generation, are monuments, likely to last for many years, of the inability of people, whom no one could accuse of being vicious, to rate sea-power at its proper value. It is much more likely that it was owing to a reluctance to study questions of naval defence as industriously as they deserved, and to that moral timidity which so often tempts even men of proved physical courage to undertake the impossible task of making themselves absolutely safe against hostile efforts at every point. Charles II has also been charged with indifference to the interests of his country, or worse, because during a great naval war he adopted the plan of trying to weaken the enemy by destroying his commerce. The king 'took a fatal resolution of laying up his great ships and keeping only a few frigates on the cruise.' It is expressly related that this was not Charles's own idea, but that it was urged upon him by advisers whose opinion probably seemed at the time as well worth listening to as that of others. Anyhow, if the king erred, as he undoubtedly did, he erred in good company. Fourteen hundred years earlier the statesmen who conducted the great war against Carthage, and whose astuteness has been the theme of innumerable panegyrics since, took the same 'fatal resolution.' In the midst of the great struggle they 'did away with the fleet. At the most they encouraged privateering; and with that view placed the war-vessels of the State at the disposal of captains who were ready to undertake a corsair warfare on their own account.'[41] In much later times this method has had many and respectable defenders. Mahan's works are, in a sense, a formal warning to his fellow-citizens not to adopt it. In France, within the last years of the nineteenth century, it found, and appears still to find, adherents enough to form a school. The reappearance of belief in demonstrated impossibilities is a recognised incident in human history; but it is usually confined to the emotional or the vulgar. It is serious and filled with menaces of disaster when it is held by men thought fit to administer the affairs of a nation or advise concerning its defence. The third Dutch war may not have settled directly the position of England in the maritime world; but it helped to place that country above all other maritime states,--in the position, in fact, which Great Britain, the United Kingdom, the British Empire, whichever
to the birds; and immediately, the lovely creatures surrounded Hilda, perching on her arms, her head, her shoulders, and caressing her with evident pleasure. "Now that you have successfully met my three tests--the first, of your fidelity, by doing your duty toward the creatures you abhorred; secondly, by passing through my jewel-garden without plucking a flower or leaf; thirdly, by showing no surprise at the wonders you have seen--you have proved yourself worthy to be the keeper of my birds," said the old woman. "It is well for you that the ears have heard no grumbling. And mind you go on as you've begun." Hilda thanked her with beaming glances, but would not venture to speak, although she longed to ask news of her dear father. "To those who wait, all things come in time," she remembered her father used to say, and determined not to break silence yet a while. The Grandmother of the Gnomes disappeared, and Hilda set herself to the task of caring for her new and lovely pets. Around the garden were bowers of sweet-smelling honeysuckle, and in each of these hung a silver cage. Hilda's duty was to cover the bottoms of the cages with sand of broken diamonds, to gather fresh sprays of flowers to stick between their bars, and to fill the jewelled drinking-troughs with dew from the cups of flowers. Day after day passed in attendance upon the birds, who all became devoted to her, in return. Each morning the Grandmother of the Gnomes came into the garden, and sometimes even smiled on Hilda, her grin making her ugliness and deformity seem to increase, if possible. Still Hilda dared not speak the words that were always trembling on her tongue. When night came, the young girl retired to rest in a delightful little house shaped from a bush of growing box, out of which doors and windows had been cut. Within was a bed of moss like velvet, and a coverlet made of the woven wings of the butterfly, with blankets of swansdown. Her meals were served by unseen hands. Punctually at breakfast, dinner, and tea-time, there sprang up in the bower house a little table shaped like a huge mushroom, covered with dainty food in dishes of gold and silver. New clothes were prepared for her, and laid across the foot of her couch while she slept. Among them were gauzy gowns that seemed to have been cut from the clouds after sunset, cobweb handkerchiefs, shoes made of mole-skin, and necklaces of petrified dew-drops. Hilda might have been quite happy but for the continual thought that her father was imprisoned somewhere near, and her longing to find him and tell him she was there. One night, while she lay thinking, apparently asleep, footsteps came to the side of her bed, and stopped. Somebody held a lamp close to her face, but Hilda pretended to be in a deep slumber, and soon the G. G., for she it was, went away, pattering about the bower, and talking to the old lodge-keeper, who followed her. "She is sound asleep, so come along. We are already a little late for our round among the prisoners. Foolish creatures! Why hadn't they, too, the sense to restrain themselves as this child did, and they might all have been working in the gardens, to this day. But no! Each one must needs twitch off a leaf here, or a rose there, and stare, and chatter over what they saw, or else go into convulsions over the work given them to do for my pretty toads, and bats, and serpents. That silly father of hers, for example! He seemed an honest fellow, but what should he do, when he thought no one was looking, but pluck one of my choicest ruby roses to carry back to Hilda. Hum! much likelihood there is that Hilda ever finds out where he is hidden, after a crime like that!" The Grandmother of the Gnomes seemed to have worked herself up into such an angry state, that Hilda dared not give any sign of waking. So she lay, still as a mouse, till the old couple had laid across her couch the new robe for next day, and trotted off. Then, gliding swiftly from her bed, the girl followed them, down a long green alley of the garden, to a grassy bank she had often noticed. There, putting her hand upon a trap-door, half hidden from sight by a mass of vines, the old crone knocked thrice, saying, "Open to the Grandmother of the Gnomes!" The door opened, and behind it was a narrow passage-way guarded by two dwarfs in red. No one spoke, and the dwarfs, prostrating themselves upon their faces, remained motionless while their sovereign lady passed in. Hilda seized this opportunity to follow, and crept unnoticed to the mouth of a circular vault of gray granite, hung with curtains of black velvet and lighted by swinging lamps of lurid red. In the centre was a long row of white marble tombs, and on each one of these tombs lay a human being apparently asleep, enclosed in a crystal casket. With a thrill of emotion, Hilda recognized in one of these placid sleepers her beloved father. The Grandmother of the Gnomes walked past each bier, sprinkling it with the liquid from a vial in her hand. At once the sleepers aroused and sat up, rolling their eyes and extending their arms to her with a beseeching gesture. The G. G. sternly shook her head, and proceeded to open a little door in each casket, through which the old lodge-keeper gave food and drink to all the prisoners in turn. The poor wretches ate and drank in silence, then turning over on their sides, the crone waved her wand above them, and instantly they fell again into a trance-like sleep. "Sleep now, till this day week!" said the Grandmother of the Gnomes, solemnly, retiring as she came. Hilda hid in a nook of the wall of rock, and followed her guides out, noiselessly and unnoticed by the prostrate dwarfs in red. And now her sole thought was how she might get possession of the reviving liquid. Alone and unprotected as she was, at the mercy of her gnome mistress, Hilda knew not where to turn for help. In the extremity of her distress, she thought of what the friendly gnome at the outer gate had said to her. "When you can capture the bird that bathes in the water of life, save the drops from off his plumage." But although Hilda racked her brain for a solution of the mystery, none could she find. All day long her birds came and went among the branches of the beautiful garden, and at night returned to their silver cages in the honeysuckle bowers. The only bath she had ever seen them take, was in the wide marble basin on the grass-plot beneath the fountain. At last, lying down to rest one day upon a bank of lilies, she fell asleep, and in her dreams, heard two of the birds talking on the bough above. "To-morrow, our friend, the little brown wren returns from his travels to the Spring of Life," said one of them. "Yes, he has been gone longer than usual, this time," said the other. "What a lucky creature he is to have gained our mistress's favor, and to be allowed to take those baths, which have the power to make him know everything, live forever, and sing more sweetly than the nightingale." "There is something mysterious about that wren, undoubtedly," sighed the first bird. "Nobody knows whether it is fear or favor that gains so many more privileges for him than for the rest of us. Do you know that if he should ever drop the single golden feather in his tail, he will become like the rest of us again, a slave and captive? And the lucky person who finds it, will be able to see all the hidden treasures of the caves beneath the mountain, pierce his way through solid rock and iron, and even defy the authority of our Sovereign Lady herself!" Hilda listened, her heart beating high with hope. Next day, indeed, there came a new bird among her charges, a little brown wren, who sat upon the topmost twig of the highest tree in the garden, and dried and smoothed his feathers, singing so exquisitely that all the others gathered around him in delight, while the disconsolate lark and nightingale, canary, mocking-bird and wood-robin, retired to a thicket of green leaves, and wept for jealousy. Spite of all Hilda's blandishments and wiles, the little brown wren would never come near enough for her to handle him. She could see him, flying amid the upper branches, the single golden feather in his tail shining splendidly, but nothing secured his presence within reach or touch. Even the Grandmother of the Gnomes was powerless to control the wilful creature. Weeks passed and Hilda was always on guard to follow the Gnome Grandmother and her attendant upon their expeditions to the crypt where the prisoners were kept. By means of the stratagem she had first employed, she never failed to be present when her father was so mysteriously recalled to life, and then dismissed again into the shadowy border-land of death. Although she could not speak to him, or tell him she was near, it was some comfort to see him arise up strong and well. Oh! if the day should come, when she might capture that tantalizing little brown bird! He had become less shy with her of late, and more inclined to perch upon the branch above her head, and, while keeping a safe distance, observe her motions closely. At last, one evening, quite disheartened, Hilda went within her own little bowery house, and sat her down and wept. For the first time since her arrival in the gnome garden, she spoke aloud. "Oh! I can bear it no longer. My heart will break! My heart will break." To Hilda's utter astonishment, a voice came from the foliage around her window, in reply. "Cheer up, dear maiden; the sound of a human voice has broken the spell cast over me, and I now see you as you are. I am he whom you have known as the little brown bird, in reality a mortal prince, bewitched by that wicked old woman, the Grandmother of the Gnomes, who makes everything within her kingdom subservient to her power. She is my deadly enemy, because I once discovered the secret of her fountain of life; and, when on a journey thither with my followers, I was captured and changed into my present shape, while they, poor creatures, were carried prisoners to her crypt. Should I regain my shape, it can only be done by the help of a being brave and true like yourself." "But why, why did you not make friends with me at first?" said the joyful Hilda. "The spell cast upon me forbade my recognizing one of my own kind, unless she or he spoke, and you know how human speech is punished in this place. For three long years I have lived in solitude, compelled by the crone to fly back and forth to fetch her the water of life for her magical incantations; what I receive upon my own plumage, while drawing the water for her, has, however, secured my immortality. As for my golden plume it is the magic blade presented to me at birth, by a wonderful old wiseman, who said that it would point me to the treasures beneath the earth, defy the powers of evil, and pierce its way through solid rock. This sword, the Grandmother of the Gnomes was unable, much as she wished to do so, to deprive me of. The utmost she could accomplish was to transform it into a golden plume. Should I ever be so unfortunate as to drop it, the finder will be my conqueror. See what confidence I have in your goodness of heart, when I thus give my life into your hands." "Never could I be so base as to betray you, dear prince," said Hilda joyfully. "Oh! speak on, loveliest of maidens," cried the disguised prince. "Every syllable you utter brings back life and hope to my sad heart. Strange that I should have watched you come and go without knowing what you are. It was the first utterance of your silvery voice in lamentation that awakened my benumbed senses. Now, shall we not work together for our deliverance?" Gladly did Hilda pour forth all the story of her woes to her newly found confidant. The prince bade her to be of good cheer, for it was his intention to set forth on the morrow upon his monthly journey in search of the water of life. "A week hence I shall return, and although it would be impossible for me to secrete any of the precious fluid so that our mistress would fail to find it out, yet I will take care to saturate my plumage with the water, so that you can obtain enough to free your father and the other sufferers. That done, we can proceed to stronger measures. Only be guided by me, and obey all I tell you to do, and I promise you release and happiness." Hilda promised and the brown bird took his leave. Next day he was no longer to be seen in the higher tree-tops, and after a week's absence, he arrived at nightfall dripping wet, and perched upon Hilda's window. Carefully did Hilda collect every drop that fell from his plumage, and when next she followed the Grandmother of the Gnomes into the fatal crypt, it was with joyful footsteps, for in her hand she concealed a leaf-cup full of the elixir of life. Not even Hilda noticed that the little brown bird also entered the crypt when she did. On this occasion, she waited as usual to see the prisoners aroused and fed, then cast again into sleep; but instead of following the two crones on their return, she remained concealed in her crevice of the rock, and saw close upon her the doors of this living tomb. Now a sudden terror overtook her, and her knees trembled. "Oh, dearest little bird, were you but by my side!" she whispered imploringly. "I am here, Hilda," came in a well-known voice. "Remember that all depends upon your courage and obedience. Go up to the crystal caskets and sprinkle a drop upon each in turn." Hilda did so, and in a few moments had the inexpressible joy of seeing about twenty brave knights and other captives arise from their couches of marble. Last of all came her beloved father, who clasped her to his breast with rapture unspeakable. "Now there is not a moment to be lost," said the brown bird, flying to Hilda. "Here, brave maiden, pluck the golden feather from my tail." Hilda obeyed, and found that she held a shining sword within her hand. "Quick, stab me to the heart!" said the bird. Hilda burst into tears and pleaded with him to spare her; but the brown bird reminded her that, because of the water of life, he could never really die; so the young girl, trembling in every limb, plunged the blade into his breast. As the warm blood rushed forth, a cloud of vapor arose, filling the cave; and blowing presently away, it revealed to all present the face and figure of a gallant youth, who, proud and smiling, knelt at Hilda's feet. "Now is the enchantment banished!" he cried, as his friends, recognizing their master, came flocking around him in delight. "But we must not again venture into the precincts of the gnome's garden, for who knows what might befall our lovely lady here? Come, my brave sword, point us a way of exit." Swinging it in the air above his head, he brought the blade into a horizontal line in front of him. At once the sword pointed to a fissure in the walls of the crypt, and as the rescued band approached, it slowly widened to an opening through which a man might pass. This was not a moment too soon, for the dwarfs on guard had discovered their attempt to escape, and a shrill whistle sounded in their ears. Swift as the lightning flash arrived the Grandmother of the Gnomes, this time in her worst aspect, fire darting from her eyes. Behind her came an army of angry little men in red, with hammers in their uplifted hands, prepared to do battle to the death. What was their fury to find the biers empty, and a long line of stalwart men, led by Hilda, escaping through a doorway in the solid rock! The last to depart was the prince, and advancing upon him with a horrible yell and glare of defiance came the Grandmother of the Gnomes. The prince met her with extended sword, and the enchanted blade pierced her to the heart. The frightened gnomes, surrounding their dead chief, laid her upon the marble slab from which Hilda's father had arisen, and then flew in pursuit of the avenger. But it was too late. The rocky wall had closed upon the retreating party, and the Grandmother of the Gnomes arose no more from her final resting-place. The divining-sword led Hilda and her companions straightway to the surface of the earth, taking care, as they passed it by, to point out sufficient hidden treasure to enrich every man of the party. As for the prince, as he was already the owner of one of the richest kingdoms of the world, all he desired was to regain it, in company with his beloved Hilda, who by this time had pledged herself to be his bride. Hilda's father accompanied them to the palace of the prince, and was by him ennobled and enriched. The marriage took place, and just as the guests were enjoying the festivities, the new queen saw her servants turning away from the door a miserable-looking pair of beggar women. Bidding these pitiful creatures draw near to receive her alms, the queen recognized in them Dame Martha and her daughter. Such was the generosity of her nature, that Hilda could not resist disclosing her self to them, and assuring them that the _accident_ of her fall had been the means of securing her wonderful good fortune. She ordered fine clothes and fine rooms to be prepared for the couple, and would have forgiven them entirely, but that her father and the prince, interfering, ordered the wicked schemers to be driven from the house and kingdom. Some time after, Dame Martha and Margaret reappeared in the neighborhood of their old home. They were very sullen and close-mouthed, and were last seen hovering around the mountain-side in the direction of the old stone quarry, after which they were lost to human view. The facts in the case are that Dame Martha's envy of her step-daughter led her to the desperate resolve to herself descend into the pit in company with her amiable child. Upon reaching the dwelling of the late Grandmother of the Gnomes, they were immediately seized and made to do duty in the cellar with the toads, mice, serpents, owls, and bats, where in all probability they are still enjoying life in congenial companionship. Hilda and her prince lived a long and happy life. The bright sword hung unused upon the wall, as no enemies appeared against whom to unsheath it, and the prince never again felt tempted to risk a visit to the kingdom of the gnomes. THE ADVENTURES OF HA'PENNY OR, THE DWARF, THE WITCH, AND THE MAGIC SLIPPERS. [Illustration: Ha'penny Watching the Witch in the Underground Garden.] Once upon a time lived a poor, little, crooked dwarf named "Ha'penny." When he was born he was so small that his nurse exclaimed, "Why, he is no bigger than a ha'penny!" and thus the nickname settled upon him, as ugly nicknames often do upon very worthy people. His father was not very kind to the unfortunate child, who, finding himself pitied and avoided by children of his own age, soon learned to go off to the woods alone, and to spend the days with birds and animals, over whom he had extraordinary power. The most beautiful birds of many-colored plumage would flutter away from their boughs in the forest to perch upon Ha'penny's finger, and take sugar from his lips; shy little brown squirrels would scamper down the trunks of the great trees to nestle against his cheek; bees buzzed around his head without offering to sting him; pretty striped snakes glided from under their stones and stumps at his call; while all horses, and cows, and dogs, and cats loved to rub against him, and let themselves be stroked and petted at his will. This friendship with the world of animals and insects was Ha'penny's greatest joy, and during the summer time, when he could live abroad, the little creature was happy enough, after his fashion. In winter he had to content himself with feeding the birds, and visiting the stables to hide in the hay of the horses' manger, where the grooms would find him, mouthing and chattering in an unknown tongue. They would often scold him, and put him out of the stable, for Ha'penny was no favorite with his father's people. His mother had died when Ha'penny was a little fellow of five, and when he reached the age of fifteen (although looking much younger) his father married a second wife, who proved a cruel step-mother. "If that ugly, little, twisted fright were out of the way, I could really enjoy life," the unkind woman would say to herself; and she lost no opportunity to make Ha'penny's life a burden to him, by all sorts of petty tricks and persecutions. He bore all in silence, creeping away to his attic bedroom, and lying for hours on the floor sobbing bitterly. His only comfort was in his pets, and a queer lot they were. Among them were a dog, who had had both fore-paws cut off by the mowing-machine, a chicken with a cork leg, a blind cat, a land-terrapin, a dozen white mice, a number of birds which he had rescued from freezing and starvation, some trained fleas, a squirrel that had lost its tail--everything that was maimed, or homeless, or unfortunate. These he treasured in a little empty chamber opening out of his, and no one but himself ever approached it. All the poor dumb creatures loved him, and would swarm around him when he opened the door; and, in return, he spent upon them all the passion of love he had never bestowed on any one of his own kind. One day when Ha'penny had gone off to the woods to search for some ripe partridge-berries for his birds, the step-mother found her way to his hidden menagerie. One instant she looked about her, with disgust and fury in her face, and then calling her maids she gave them cruel orders. Ha'penny came in from his walk, opened the door of his treasure-house--and alas! what a sight met his eyes! In two corners of the room hung his pet dog and cat, his terrapin was crushed under a heavy piece of iron, his birds were dead, his chicken's head was cut off, his mice were drowned in a pail; not one living thing remained to greet him but the trained fleas, who had taken refuge in the rafters overhead after biting the wicked mistress and her maids until they capered about in their misery! Ha'penny gave one glance at his beloved pets thus wantonly sacrificed, and fell upon the floor sobbing with helpless rage and despair. He lay there all day without being inquired for, and when night came he stole out to the orchard and buried his poor dead favorites under the light of the stars. He would not go back to the house, and, forgetful of cold, hunger, everything but his burning sense of wrong, he wandered away, away, into the forest. A few berries and a crust he had carried for the birds were his only food until the evening of the next day, when he came in sight of a queer little hut, half hidden from observation by the trees that grew over it. Starving and desperate, Ha'penny was gaining courage to knock at the door. All at once a little lattice window opened, and an old woman poked her head out saying: "Come and eat, the table's spread With sweetest milk and whitest bread. Good cheer, enough for all I've got, And more is cooking in the pot." At this Ha'penny pricked up his ears and licked his chaps like a hungry cur; and just then a number of handsome cats and dogs came running out of the woods and toward the cottage door, which the dame had by this time opened. As no animal ever avoided Ha'penny, these creatures all fawned upon him, refusing to go in; and the dame, perceiving the new-comer, asked him, with an angry air, what was his business. "A little food and shelter, madam," said poor Ha'penny, the tears running down his cheeks. "Begone, you rascal!" cried the angry woman; "I don't believe a word you say. I believe you are a spy sent here to tempt away my pets. See how they hang around you. You must be a magician, for in general they will have nothing to do with strangers. Get you gone, sorcerer!" Ha'penny turned meekly away, but the dogs and cats followed him with every show of affection. Faint with hunger as he was, his legs tottered under him, and he soon fell to the ground. Then the cats and dogs surrounded him, licking his face and hands in spite of all their mistress's endeavors to coax them away. The old woman's anger ceased when she found the grotesque-looking little stranger had really fainted from exhaustion. She lifted him in her arms and carried him in to the fire, and rubbed his cold limbs, putting spoonfuls of hot broth between his lips. By and by, when Ha'penny came to himself, he told her all his sad story, and when he reached the part about the killing of his pets, his heavy eyes flashed fire. "She is a horrible wicked woman!" he exclaimed. The dame answered by striking her staff on the floor. "See here, boy, if you are honest, you may stay here and mind my animals." She took him into the next room, and there--what a funny spectacle! Twelve cats and twelve dogs lay upon cushions before the fire. The cushions were made of satin, and the covers were of velvet worked in gold. Twenty-four silver bowls stood in a row, and every cat or dog had its separate comb and brush, and bath-tub and towels, and sponge and soap, and perfume bottle, on a shelf. In the middle of the room played a fountain of rose-water, and at the windows hung pink silk curtains, which were drawn when the creatures went to sleep. All in this room was rich and costly, while the dame's own quarters were as plain as those of any other cottager. _She_ was content to sleep in a big feather bed, to be covered by a clean patchwork quilt, to eat on a deal table off blue crockery, with a well-scoured pewter spoon. Ha'penny's eyes sparkled at the idea of waiting on the cats and dogs. He made friends with them at once. The dame gave him a clean bedroom under the roof, and every day after feeding and combing his charges he took them for a walk in the woods. "So long as you wait on my darlings faithfully, and mind your own business," the dame said, "no trouble will come to you. But on no account ever go near the little closet in the peak of the roof. Should you do so, evil will happen, and your life may pay the forfeit." Ha'penny suspected from this that his mistress was a witch; but it troubled him very little, as he was an honest lad and intended never to disobey her. One day the dame brought home a new cat, a large, white Angora, a beauty to look at, with pink eyes and flowing hair, fine and silken as spun glass. From the moment of that cat's arrival the happy family was completely upset. Félisette, for so she was named, proved to be vain, selfish, and greedy; she fought for the best of everything, ate up her neighbor's bowl of milk as well as her own, and actually bit and spit at Ha'penny. Félisette soon became jealous of Ha'penny's affection for the others, and determined to do him an evil turn. One day the dame was going to the Witches' Sabbath, and said to Ha'penny, "Now mind and take especial care of my lovely darling, Félisette. If she gets into any trouble I shall hold you to answer for it, as I see the dear creature is not your favorite." The dame went off riding on a broom-stick, and Félisette invented a thousand spiteful tricks to make the time pass unpleasantly to the others. At last she disappeared, and presently Ha'penny heard her crying pitifully upstairs. He rushed to see what was the matter, and discovered her with her tail caught in the door of the forbidden closet, up in the peak of the roof. She seemed about to die of the pain she was suffering, and, eager to set her free, the kind lad, without a moment's hesitation, lifted the latch while stroking Félisette's fur, when lo! as the door flew open, out came a skeleton hand, seizing poor Ha'penny in its grip! Up jumped Félisette, laughing heartily at the success of her trick, and ran away. [Illustration: Ha'penny opens the magic closet.] Ha'penny found himself held close in the embrace of two skeleton arms. In vain he struggled; the dreadful clasp only grew closer. He knew that this was a trap the witch had set to catch any one visiting the forbidden closet, so he made up his mind to die when his mistress should return. While he was in this sad way, the oldest of the dogs came up and licked his hands. Tears were running from its eyes, and to Ha'penny's great surprise the dog spoke. "My poor friend!" said the oldest of the dogs, "I am afraid your fate is sealed. Know, then, that there is but one chance left for you to escape the witch's power. In this closet she keeps the magic slippers and the magic staff. Wearing the slippers, you may run faster than the wind; holding the staff, you may discover all the hidden treasures of the earth." "But how can I get free of this horrible trap?" said Ha'penny. The oldest of the dogs looked around to see that no one was listening, and then whispered: "You must know that we twelve dogs were once twelve princes, and the twelve cats were princesses--all of us having turn by turn fallen into the power of the witch. She is bound to treat us according to our rank, but there is no hope of ever regaining human shape, I fear. Still, we may be able to help _you_, who have been so good to us." He gave a little short bark, and up the stairs came running all the dogs and cats, who wept when they saw the sad plight of their friend. Up on a high shelf over the skeleton's head were the magic staff and slippers, and the thing was to get them down without touching the skeleton, which held fast every living thing that touched it. One of the cats ran nimbly up the wall and let herself hang; the next cat hung to her tail, and so on till a bridge was made, over which the oldest of the dogs scrambled, and got the coveted treasures. He put the staff in Ha'penny's hand, and fitted the slippers on his feet. Ha'penny gave a kick, and struck the ground with his staff. Instantly the arms of the skeleton relaxed their grip, and he was free. He bade a fond farewell to his dear friends, promising to come back to help them whenever he could. He set out to run from the house, and speedily the slippers carried him off at such a tremendous rate of speed that he was faint for want of breath. Vainly he tried to stop, but no; on, on he went with a fearful rush. He heard the cries of the old witch, who pursued him on her broom-stick. On, on, went poor Ha'penny, more dead than alive, and now the witch seemed gaining on him. He could hear the gnashing of her teeth. He struck out with his staff, as he passed by a rock, and instantly the rock became a mountain as high as the moon. The witch took some time to clamber over this, and meantime Ha'penny got far ahead of her. Reaching a city, he dashed into the midst of a funeral procession that was going through the street, and hid himself under the pall of the coffin, kicking off the slippers as he did so. Immediately he could walk as other men do, and when the old witch arrived she saw nothing but the funeral creeping slowly along--no sign of Ha'penny, who, hidden under the pall, clasped his magic slippers to his breast, and held tight to his magic staff. The disappointed witch flew homeward and whipped the cats and dogs soundly--excepting Félisette, who, of course, had been the tell-tale on poor Ha'penny. The funeral train reached the cemetery, and Ha'penny thought it his duty to cry as bitterly as the rest of the mourners; but after the coffin had been put in the grave, and as they were turning away, he asked a bystander whose funeral it was. "The king's messenger, to be sure, you simpleton," said the man. "Could I get the place?" asked Ha'penny. "You, the king's messenger!" said the man, scornfully. "Why, he must be the swiftest runner in the country. Look at your cork-screw legs! Look at your hump-back and your big head! As well expect a snail to carry our king's messages." Nothing daunted, Ha'penny went to the king's chamberlain, and proffered his request. The chamberlain laughed until his head nearly dropped off, and then called the first Goldstick-in-waiting, who called the second, and soon the whole court was roaring over the absurd request of this poor mannikin to be the king's messenger. "All I ask is that you try me," said Ha'penny, stoutly holding his ground. "Stop! An idea occurs to me," said the jolly chamberlain, holding his aching sides. "To-morrow we shall have a running-match between this champion and the swiftest runner of the kingdom. In truth, my lords, this will be sport worth having," and he looked around at the courtiers, who all set to laughing anew. Next day the match was held in a lovely grassy field. On a green mound in the centre was pitched a white satin tent, under which sat the king and queen and their children. An immense crowd assembled. Two bands of music kept playing all the time; there were free Punch and Judy shows on the outskirts of the crowd, and booths where lemonade was given away, with peppermint sticks and molasses taffy, to all who asked for it. Banners waved, trumpets blew, and then the race began. Side by side with Ha'penny, little and insignificant and forlorn as he was, started the king's swiftest runner, a man of beautiful light form and splendid muscle. Once around the field they ran, the dwarf lagging; but on the second round Ha'penny settled his feet well in his magic slippers, when, see! like an arrow he sped past the athlete, and was in at the goal so easily that the spectators hardly had time to wink their astonished eyes
aching bones that lined the right-of-way. The jungle is nature's great blotter for the sins, sorrows, and sufferings of an age now forgotten--but it all happened in Panama. Panama is not all jungle. To the westward stretch great savannas, between the mountains and the sea; miles and miles of smooth and level country open, fair and well watered, only waiting for the tickle of American cultivation to laugh a crop. It makes a real estate man's fingers itch; but that is another story. Where a little cultivation has been inadvertently perpetrated on the land, tall sugar cane, luscious fruits, and toothsome vegetables attest the quality of the soil and the climate. Frequent rivers, numerous inlets on the coast line, occasional interesting native towns, old churches, impossible "roads," meandering trails, scattered herds of fat cattle, a few sugar mills, numerous trapiches (cane grinders), fenced patreros (pastures), and everywhere the mixed-blood natives--this is Panama in the western provinces. Panama westward is not all a flat country, however. Eleven thousand feet into the sky rises the Chiriqui volcano, and a little farther west in the same range stands Pico Blanco (White Top), at about the same height. Thrown across the slopes of these lofty summits and half way up lies a great and beautiful country, with a climate such as might have been coveted for the site of Eden. Cool, comfortable, and salubrious is this garden of the gods. In all the so-called temperate zone no land yet discovered offers three hundred and fifty days per year of comfort and health. To be sure, vacation pilgrims from the warmer coast country sometimes make mention of cold feet upon first reaching this Mecca in the mountains, but nobody finds fault on that account. Most of them like it. Chiriqui is a garden spot. Wide ranges of fertile soil, gentle slopes rolling back against the mountain ranges, good harbors along the coast, and occasional plantations with American improvements, mark the country as the coming granary of the Republic. Rolling slopes and blossoming fields, with a background of the never-failing come-and-go of the lights and shades on the face of the mountains, form a picture not to be forgotten. Always the summits and the clouds seem to be playing leapfrog in the sky, and the whole upper world, looking down on the puny traveler, seems ever trying to say something and never quite uttering its meaning. And he who looks and listens finds himself trying to say it for them, and never can he find the word. Perhaps some poetic soul will yet look upon these heights and tell us what it is they are muttering. The coast line of western Panama is a fascinating shore. Like enchanted islands rise bits of forest out of the sea and any of them might be the castle site of the lord of the main. In and out between their wooded shores the steamer winds its way till it dodges in through some narrow "boca" to find a tortuous channel leading to a landing place, that must always be approached at the whim of the tide. Whether there be a thousand islands or not, no one knows; but I have stood on the steamer deck and counted fifty in sight at a time, while other fifties rose up to meet us as those nearby dropped astern. Here and there some lonely light blinks its vigil through the night, and the swells of the Pacific break in fantastic sea-ghosts against the rocky cliffs. [Illustration: AN EMPIRE IN THE MAKING] Navigation of these waters is not a science, it is an art. The captains of these coast craft know every tree and rock and river mouth for four hundred miles, and make their way through tortuous channels by markings that no landsman can see. There is one grizzled navigator, said to be unable to read or write, who knows every marking on the coast for six hundred miles, and in the long years of service has never made a mistake or met with an accident. Possibly his success might be due to the fact that what he does not know does not confuse him. His mental horizon may not be very distant, but at least he escapes a lot of worry about things that he (and you and I) cannot control. When the tides have a rise and fall of eighteen feet, and all harbors are but shallow river mouths, the negotiation of the coast ports becomes a matter requiring much accuracy of judgment. The old trail across the Isthmus is the Mecca of many pilgrims who by some searching find its scattered stones amid the riotous jungle. The later trail was opened after the city of Panama was moved to its present site. It began at Colon, followed the Chagres River to the present site of Gamboa, and then wound its ways over the low summit of the hills down to the new Panama and terminated at the "Nun's Beach," where now stand a Protestant church and school. Here the pack trains were unloaded and the high tides carried the rafts and lighters out to the ships waiting in the little harbor. The dark days of Panama were the days after the gold trade failed. Even the gold of Peru was not inexhaustible, and the trade across the Isthmus could not stand continued centuries of robbery and murder. It had to end some time, and end it did; and when the end came all the Isthmus lapsed into a slough of despond and lethargy of inertia. For a century and a half Panama was as forgotten as the Catacombs. But Panama went her way, whether anybody cared or not. The people left on the Isthmus were the racial remnants of the mixture of mankind that had found its way back and forth for two centuries, and they were fairly able to take care of themselves. The rich forests and fertile soil would bear fruit and food enough to sustain life whether anyone worked or not, and the result was not the development of a virile race of men. How could it be? Probably few spots on earth have had less incentive to develop hardy and enterprising character than the Isthmus of Panama. [Illustration: A FEW GOOD ROADS ON THE ZONE] The prowler about Panama will find a wide variety of interests and inspirations. Whatever his peculiar, personal fad he can find it somewhere. Then he can prowl to his heart's content. If he prefers the sea, there are fifteen hundred miles of coast line to explore with something new to every mile. Or he can launch out a bit, and in a day's time make his way to the famous Pearl Islands, where are life and industry so distinct that weeks mays be spent in studying the development of a civilization, insular and unique. The coast of Darien has boundless possibilities for the explorer; and the San Blas Islands would keep the ethnologist busy for months. For an enchanted inland sea the Chiriqui Lagoon is unsurpassed. If historical romance is desired, the prowling is certainly abundant; and if the prowler is a lover of nature, wild and luxuriant, rioting in marvelous and indescribable forms of overflowing life, he has but to equip himself for jungle travel, and he will find wonders by the mile, and fantastic nature piled mountains high and chasms deep. If it is mountains, they are here in scenic beauty unsurpassed. If the explorer is a student of human nature and cares to attempt the unscrambling of this blend of blood that flows in swarthy faces, he will be busy here for a lifetime. And if none of these will do, and the curious landsman will have nothing short of the exploring of vast unchristened wildernesses where no human foot has ever trod, and where strange and dangerous forms of unclassified life wander at will through the overgrown forests, he will find it--and doubtless he will find much more of it than he wants before he gets back to civilization. If it is promotion schemes and development projects, then here at least is a commodious place to put them. Here, in agricultural and colonizing schemes, somebody will yet get rich--and other somebodies poor. If the prowler's interest is primarily social, and he would browse about one of the most interesting cities in America, let him come to Panama. Ancient Spanish streets, scrupulously clean--can these be found anywhere else? Side by side, over and under, the sixteenth and twentieth centuries run together. And what makes Panama to-day the crossroad of the world? For him who in the love of engineering skill holds communion with high human achievement, and prefers to prowl around the locks and docks, and study the marvelous successes and adaptations and devices of the latest and greatest feat of brain and hand, this is the very center of the earth. No man with a soul for the poetry of mechanics can stand in a control house of one of the locks and see the enormous gates swing back at the movement of a finger without feeling that man, with all his limitations, has yet in his being some image of the Creator. To see an ocean giant rise up slowly in the teeth of gravitation and slip through the gates on to the higher level, is to wonder whether the portals that look so gloomy to us may not, after all, be not exits but entrances to a new and higher level of life. What a text! The ship does not rise by straining but by resting in a narrow place. And no ship ever yet got through the locks without a pilot. The whole process is as silent as the forces of eternity. There is a lot more, and it bears no copyright. Help yourself. [Illustration: CHURCH AT NATA, OLDEST INHABITED TOWN IN THE NEW WORLD, FOUNDED 1520] And for the prowler in the region of philosophy, what a place! What changes in the geography and commerce and industry and policies and politics of mankind must follow this last achievement on the historical Isthmus of Panama, "quien sabe?" ("who knows?") None but the Omniscient. Trade routes and bank exchanges, commercial dealings and national programs will all be affected by this three-hundred-foot wide highway of water. If but some power the gift would give us to come back a century hence and see what will be doing then! What social and moral transformations will be wrought in the coming years by the release of spiritual forces through the new religious life and free faith brought to Panama with the coming of the Canal? Out of the soul-bondage of a system of superstition and ignorance will come a new human consciousness of the worthiness of life and the high privilege of living. Whether it is to prowl or prophesy, the material is abundant, and the pilgrim will find rare material a-plenty all about him. Panama is perplexing and peculiar, but he who finds the key to the riddle will be kept busy. Perhaps the amateur explorer has a penchant for old churches. Here they are. Seven of them, with a couple of first-class ruins thrown in. The rich monasteries of Peru and Mexico are missing, but for that there is a reason. Every bit of treasure was stolen as fast as accumulated. Yes, if unmolested in the past, Panama would be a mine for the antiquarian to-day. But any active imagination, even on half-time shift, can find here material for romances, warranted to interest every member of the family, at reduced prices, if paid for in advance. From the Flat-Arch Church to the ruins of Old Panama it is good prowling all the way. CHAPTER II THE TRAIL OF THE PIRATES The present conglomerate of humanity living on the Isthmus of Panama is the racial remainder of some very much mixed social history. Here were enacted some of the most stirring stories and tempestuous times in American history. In 1453 the Eastern Roman Empire fell before the assaults of the Turks and closed the land routes to India. Nearly forty years later Columbus set sail in his great effort to find a westward passage for the commerce of Europe. In this he failed, but on his fourth and final voyage discovered the Isthmus of Panama and landed on the shores of the Chiriqui Lagoon, supposing that the beautiful inland sea must be the long-sought passage westward. Here the town of Almirante still bears his name. At Porto Bello and Saint Christopher Bay he made brief stops and returned to Spain having no idea of the character of the isthmus that he had discovered. On November 3, 1903, exactly four hundred years from the day that Columbus set foot on the soil of Panama, the Republic of Panama declared its sovereign independence and began its national life as one of the family of American nations. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the Caribbean main was overrun by as unscrupulous and bloodthirsty a set of pirates as ever sailed any sea. Even without these rascals there would have been trouble enough, and with them the story is sufficiently lurid for the most melodramatic taste. [Illustration: THE JUNGLE IS THE PLACE FOR PICNICS] One name stands out above his fellows. The intrepid navigator who first saw the waters of the Pacific set forth at the age of twenty-three as an adventurer, and after various experiences embarked as a stowaway for his second voyage. By personal persuasion he became the partner of his master, and after founding a colony in Darien sent Señor Endico back to Spain in irons for his pains. This left Balboa supreme, with the whole Castilla de Oro (Castle of Gold) country before him for exploration. He at once sent Pizarro to examine the interior and gathered the scattered fugitives from former expeditions. The combined forces took the field against the Indians. When they reached the domain of Comagre, the most powerful chief of the country, peace was made. This chief was a real aristocrat with mummied ancestors clothed in gold and pearls, and he gave to Balboa four thousand ounces of gold, sixty wives, and offered to show him the way to a country beyond the dim mountains where a powerful people lived in magnificence and sailed ships of solid gold. He also entertained his distinguished visitor with tales of a temple of gold called Dabaibe, forty leagues farther than Darien, and said that the mother of the sun, moon, and stars lived there. Balboa's imagination was stirred by these stories and he prepared an expedition of discovery. No temple of gold was found, but internal dissensions and Indian attacks disturbed the peace of the colony. Reenforcements arrived, and with them the title of captain-general. Balboa now set out on what was to be the most famous event of his life. He had been promised the sight of a great ocean to the south, after he had climbed certain mountains. Various Indian oppositions developed, but on the 26th of September, 1513, at about ten o'clock in the morning, Balboa and his men, from the top of a high mountain, saw for the first time the waters of the vast Pacific. The priest of the expedition, named Andreas de Vara, chanted a _Te Deum_, with the entire company on their knees. A cross was raised, and the names of the Spanish rulers carved on the surrounding trees. After meeting several Indian tribes the descent was made to the shore, and Balboa waded knee deep into the surf and, waving the banner of Spain, proclaimed that the new-found ocean and all land bordering thereon should be the property of his sovereign. For a long time this new ocean was known as the South Sea, and Balboa at once set about exploring the vicinity. The Pearl Islands were located, taken possession of, and named. A later expedition by a less difficult route crossed the Isthmus of Panama and conquered the Indians on the Pearl Islands, bringing back plentiful tribute of fine pearls from the subdued chief. The year following, in 1514, arrived the black villain of the story in the person of Pedrarias, sent out from Spain as governor of Darien. This disturber brought with him two thousand men. Balboa built a fleet of ships on the Atlantic side, took them to pieces, carried them on the backs of Indians across the Isthmus, put them together again, launched them in the waters of the Pacific, and proceeded to explore the coast eastward from Panama. On his return from this trip Balboa was arrested by Pedrarias on a trumped-up charge of treason, and in the forty-second year of his life was beheaded, while declaring his entire innocency of all treachery. Balboa was a product of his age, and of faults he possessed a-plenty, but as one of the great explorers of history his end was a sad reward for the distinguished services that he rendered to the world. [Illustration: EVEN FARM CABINS ARE PICTURESQUE IN COSTA RICA] In 1515 an expedition crossed the Isthmus and camped near the hut of a poor fisherman at a point called by the natives Panama. For this name several explanations are given, one of them being that there were many shellfish at this place. The meaning of the name is now lost, but in 1519 the city of Panama was founded at this point by Pedrarias. Two years later, by order of the Spanish crown, the bishopric, government, and colonists of the Isthmus were transferred from the Atlantic side at Darien to Old Panama. History now began in earnest by the Pacific. In 1525 a priest celebrated in the cathedral at Old Panama solemn mass with two other men, Pizzarro and Almagro, the rite being a solemn vow to conquer all countries lying to the south. For this purpose an expedition was soon organized and sailed away along the west coast of South America. This expedition met with varying fortunes, but in time discovered the long-sought Peru with its splendid temples and golden treasures. The first regular trail across the Isthmus led from Nombre de Dios to Old Panama, crossing the Chagres River at Cruces. Later small boats sailed from Nombre de Dios to the mouth of the Chagres and made their way up to Cruces, where their cargoes were transferred to the backs of horses for the rest of the journey to Panama. Later Nombre de Dios was abandoned for Porto Bello, because of the very good harbor at the latter place. The old trail was "paved" with stones for a part of the way, and the relics of this old road may still be found in a few places amid the tangled growths of the jungle. With the conquest of Peru and the discovery of gold in Darien, Old Panama came rapidly to its own and soon became a city of great importance, being for the time the richest city in New Spain. All the gold of Peru and the rich west coast was brought to Panama to be sorted and packed across the Isthmus, thence to be sent to Spain. Porto Bello became a rich town and maintained great annual fairs up to the time of its destruction by Morgan's pirates. The century and a half between the establishment of Old Panama as the chief city of the Isthmus and its destruction in 1671 supplied one of the tempestuous periods of history. It was on the Isthmus of Panama that the American slave trade began and was continued for three hundred years. The native Indians were so destroyed by the brutality and greed of the Spanish conquerors that the expedient of importing black men from Africa was devised in order to secure a labor supply for the country. Here arises the historical precedent for the use of West Indian labor in the digging of the American Canal. The best account of the sacking and destruction of Old Panama is that written by John Esquemeling and published seven years after the event, of which he was an eyewitness, being a member of the pirates' band. The detailed account of this event, with the general pillaging of the Isthmus by the English buccaneers, has been narrated with much exactness and great interest. [Illustration: RUINS OF OLD PANAMA. THE MOST ROMANTIC SPOT IN THE NEW WORLD] Stories of the great wealth of Old Panama in the day of its glory are not hard to find. With the complete destruction of all this magnificence, the present city was founded with due ceremonies in 1673 and much stone was transported from the old city and built into the new. The cathedral was soon built and stands to-day as solid as when first erected. The queen of Spain sent detailed instructions for the building of the city, and among other things directed that a safe wall for defense should be provided. This was so well done that some of it still stands, an interesting relic of the vigor and thoroughness of the civilization that produced it. Many years passed in building these walls, and they were said to have cost ten millions of dollars, most of which came from Peru. The story is told of a Spanish king, who stood one day looking out of his palace window. When asked what he was looking for he replied, "I am looking for those costly walls of Panama; they should be visible even from here." A little knowledge of the business methods of those days may throw some light on the whys and wherefores of the high cost of the old walls. Twenty-six years after the founding of the present city of Panama an effort was made to establish an English colony in Darien, but fever and discouragement aided the Spanish in ending the venture. The eighteenth century is a monotonous one in Panama annals, marked mainly by frequent encounters between the Spaniards and the Indians. Several piratical expeditions ended in the scattering and murdering of the pirates and restoration of Spanish sovereignty. When the great movement in South America for political independence swept as far north as Colombia, and the decisive battle of Boyaca was fought in 1819, Panama was very strongly held by Spain as a place of maintenance for her armies, and the city was at all times in a good state of defense. In this same year, however, the first junta was formed for the purpose of bringing about independence from Spain, and sentiment in favor of the revolution grew very rapidly. Early in 1821 General Murgeon arrived with the promise of high reward if he could compose the difficulties in Panama and save the Isthmus to Spain. This he saw to be impossible, and after having appointed José de Fabrega as coloner, he left for Quito. Fabrega, being Isthmian born, cast his lot with the revolutionists and on November 28th, 1821, a large and enthusiastic crowd assembled with representatives from all military and ecclesiastical organizations, and Panama was declared to be forever free from Spanish dominion. A few loyal troops, seeing their helpless position, laid down their arms, and the change of government was effected without the shedding of a drop of blood--something new in Panamanian affairs. Simon Bolivar sent over help for the independents, but found the work done before his men arrived. After this political upheaval Panama slept on, and would still be dormant to-day but for the discovery of gold in California in 1849. With a six months' overland journey between the gold-hungry men of the Eastern States and the gold-filled mountains of the West, the Isthmus suddenly came into prominence as an easier way of reaching California. For seven or eight years after the finding of gold not less than forty millions of dollars of gold, twelve millions in silver, and twenty-five thousand passengers were transported across the Isthmus annually. In 1853 the high-water mark was reached, when sixty-six millions of dollars of gold were carried across to the Atlantic side and shipped to New York. This sudden development of the pack train business brought to the Isthmus a horde of Chileans, Peruvians, Indians, and mixed breeds, among whom were the inevitable plunderers and spoilers. The trail was again marked by blood and treachery. Many an unhappy pilgrim lost his riches, and not a few lost their lives on the way. At last the authorities were aroused to the necessity of making safe this highway suddenly become so important to the world. [Illustration: INDIAN WOMAN AT THE FOUNTAIN] The year of the first gold rush saw the organization of the Panama Railroad Company. In 1846 three American business men organized under the present name and secured a concession from New Granada for forty-nine years with such conditions that no ship canal could be constructed across the Isthmus without the consent of the railroad company. When the name of New Granada was changed to that of Colombia, the time was extended to ninety-nine years. This concession in time came to be very valuable, and the French Canal Company found it necessary to buy out the Panama Railroad in order to secure control of the exclusive right of way across the Isthmus. Later, when the United States acquired the control of the French possessions in Panama, the Panama Railroad became one of the most valuable assets on the list. By conditions of the concession, this road was bound to pay to Colombia the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year. After various transfers and deals this still holds in the form of the obligation of the Panama Canal to pay this sum annually to the Republic of Panama. The story of the early construction days of the Panama Railroad are as exciting as those of the Morgan Pirates, with a far better outcome. Labor troubles were many and bitter, and it became necessary to hold men in jail until they were willing to work. The attractions of the California gold fields were too much for the cupidity of men who saw daily pack trains loaded with gold from the Eldorado of the Northwest passing their wretched hovels and taunting them with visions of easy riches. But the work proceeded, and after interminable troubles with the black swamp between Aspinwall (Colon) and Gatun, the road was finished as far as Gatun in the year 1850. In 1855 the line was finished to Panama and the romantic career of the most prosperous short railroad in the world was well under way. Charges for freight and passenger travel were enormous in the early days of the road. The fare was fifty cents per mile, with all baggage extra. Freight was carried across the Isthmus for twenty-five cents per pound, but so terrible were the old pack-train conditions that the travelers of that day were more than willing to pay such prices for the luxury of crossing the Isthmus by the railroad. At last the Colombian government took up the matter and the passenger rate was reduced. Ten cents per pound continued to be the freight charge for years. The road made vast profits, and by a combination of rates with the steamship companies maintained a monopoly of travel. A few years after the completion of the railroad the pack-train men and outlaws, deprived of their plunder by the road, became very active as brigands, and on one occasion perpetrated a riot that cost sixteen Americans their lives and brought the United States and Colombia to the verge of open rupture. As far back as 1515 a German named Schoner drew a map of the American continents with a clear line for a canal through the Isthmus. In 1581 an actual survey was made for a canal, but nothing was done about it. In 1620 Diego de Mercado submitted a long report to Philip II, but the monarch turned it down, saying that since God had joined the continents together, it would be impious to try to separate them, and a death penalty was decreed for anyone so rash as to try to undo the works of God in this way. In 1827 an engineer was sent by Simon Bolivar, president of the New Granada federation, and a report was made commending the project of a combined rail and water route. In 1838 a French company aroused so much enthusiasm in the canal project that an expert was sent by the French government to look the ground over. He reported that a sea-level canal could be dug without going deeper than thirty-seven feet, but the idea was again abandoned. Two American investigations were made in 1866 and 1875, and about this time much interest was aroused in the then new Nicaragua project. The popularity of the Suez Canal, successfully completed in 1869, led directly to the DeLesseps organization of the Panama Canal Company. Agitation began in 1875 and in the year following a right of way was secured, but with the Panama Railroad concession standing in the way. The story of the work of the French Company, the New Canal Company, and the final completion of the work by the United States government, is told elsewhere. Now that the trail of the sixteenth-century pirates has become the most famous inland waterway of the world, we can read with complacency the story of the wretched times during which the Isthmus was the scene of constant strife. Verily, Panama was not a very good place for sightseeing in those days. The prowlers of the infested jungles and blood-stained trails were not such as we would select as traveling companions to-day. If any modern prowler becomes despondent and is tempted to complain that the former days were better than these, let him read the story of Old Panama, and then consider conditions as they are on the Isthmus and the Zone to-day, and he will find food for reflection. CHAPTER III PICTURESQUE PANAMA A Panamanian cart loaded with English tea biscuit, drawn by an old American army mule, driven by a Hindoo wearing a turban, drove up in front of a Chinese shop. The Jamaican clerk, aided by the San Blas errand boy, came out to supervise the unloading. The mule wriggled about out of position, a Spanish policeman came along and everybody got out and "cussed" the mule. That is Panama, every day. Across the street is an Italian lace shop run by a Jew. Next door is a printery, operated by a Costa Rican. Just beyond is a French laundry conducted by a man from Switzerland, and on the next corner is a beautiful Chinese store where they sell everything from Japan. Cloisonné and lacquer and curious carvings, silks, embroideries, scientific instruments--they are all here. You can buy Canton linen, Hongkong brass, Nikko carvings, Hindoo embroidery, German cutlery, French microscopes, Canadian flour, New York apples, and California grapes all within a block. And the products of Central and South America are all about. The street in front of the shops is full of Panamanians, Peruvians, Ecuadorians, Chileans, Colombians, and San Blas Indians, besides some representatives of every country of North and South America, Europe, Asia, and Africa. Canal Zone Americans walk past Yankee business men, and native police crowd the mestizos off the sidewalk. Panama is a jitney town, and the honk of the never-silent horn punctuates the clang and dash of the trolleys and automobiles down a fifteen-foot street in a mad race to see which can get through first. Overhanging roofs nearly touch above blooming orchids and talking birds that scream across the narrow streets. Gloomy interiors and stumbling stairways lead up to spacious apartments and breezy balconies. Above are occasional roof-gardens. All the rooms have high ceilings, all the streets are paved, and all the kids wear clothes--sometimes. There is no possible human shade or tint that is absent here. The Anglo-Saxons are white, more or less. The Jamaicans are black, mostly. The Panamanian is most often a soft and pleasing brown, done in a number of wholly unmatchable tints. And the natives from these many sunny countries round about are of every known color-tone, from chrome yellow to Paris green. This is the human kaleidoscope of the earth: shake it up and you will get a different result every time. You may not like it, but you can never truthfully say that Panama is not interesting--all the time. The streets are clean. Daily sweepers and nightly garbage men take care of that. The sidewalks are narrow, of course. Perhaps these two-foot sidewalks account in part for the innate courtesy of the Latin mind. One must be either polite or profane when he makes his way along these little ledges, often two or three feet above the street. A portable stepladder would help some. [Illustration: BATHS--WHOLESALE AND RETAIL] Some of these houses are old, very old. A few are new; most of them have stood here one or two hundred years. There are many three stories high, a few boast of four stories, but the most of them have but two. Third stories are popular because of the breezes that blow and make life comfortable. Plazas are small, but parked and well kept, and they are used as only Latin-Americans know how to use a plaza. The little ones are garden-spot oases in the deserts of bare walls and wide eaves. Santa Ana Plaza is the heart of the city, and there is no hour of the day or night that there are not people there. If you really wish to see the world go by, sit on the stone bench at Santa Ana Plaza and look about you. If you stay long enough, you may see anybody, from the latest naked brown baby to the last chosen president of any country you may name. Sitting in the plaza is a business by itself in this country. The North American uses a park as a short cut, cross-corners, to get somewhere. But with the tropic citizen, the plaza is an end in itself. He is not going anywhere, he is just sitting in the plaza. He may not even be called a bench-warmer--the bench is already warm. He is sitting in the plaza--that is all. The band-night parade in Santa Ana Plaza is an institution. Around the central garden they saunter, to the swing of the very good music from the central pavilion. The outer walk is wide, and so is the parade. Clockwise walks the inner circle, three abreast, all young men. In the opposite direction saunter the young women, also in threes. 'Round and 'round they go, talking, laughing, listening, looking, lingering, while the band plays on. It is a good band too. And not the least of the exhibit is the clothes the women wear. In matter of graceful and apparently comfortable costumes the Panamanian girls need apologize to none of their northern sisters. Who is to blame the boys if they keep on walking around for the sake of seeing the seeable, especially when she may be quite worth watching? Every added turn means one look more. It is all very dignified and proper, but human nature is the same old composition in every land, and the blood in the heart runs red, no matter what the tint or tan without. In a land where the customs of chaperonage are exceeding strict, and no young woman is supposed to be left alone with any young man for the briefest moment, it is easy to see why the band nights in the plaza are popular. Ostensibly the young women, after the manner of their kind, have no interest in the young men, but just the same, their soft brown eyes have the same old way of wandering at the right moment; it is the same old trick and it works in the same old way. The cathedral plaza is rather a different matter. Here gather the elite, in numbers on concert nights, and more or less on other fair evenings. The grown-ups sit about on the benches and the children run and play, care-free and comfortable. Well-dressed and content, these are the best of the old native stock that used to live "inside" the walls of Panama that the Spanish king thought he should be able to see. There are usually a few Americans with the crowd, and it is a peaceful and restful family scene. Were it not for the incessant clatter of the trolleys and jitneys the place would be a good rest-cure. But as matters now stand, there is too much pandemonium for any permanent peace. [Illustration: CONVENT DOOR] Out at the point of the seawall, near Chiriqui Prison, stands an old stone sentry box. It appears to belong to the prison now, but there was a time when the outlook from that point on the bay of Panama was the viewpoint of Panamanian life as it faced the Pacific and marked the place of departure for shores unknown. It is prosaic enough now to stand beside the little old stone tower and watch a big liner leave the canal and throw back its smoke-plume as it steams out
to accomplish much beautiful and undefined Good; and in whose service they were prepared meanwhile to suffer any amount of obloquy and talk any amount of nonsense. They believed that Society could be straightened and set right by the well-meaning efforts of well-meaning souls like themselves—aided by the Ballot, the Voice of the People, and Woman. They believed, in defiance of the teachings of history, that Democracy is another word for peace and goodwill towards men. They believed (quite rightly) in the purity of their own intentions; and concluded (quite wrongly) that the intentions of all persons who did not agree with them must therefore be evil and impure.... They were, in short, very honest and devout sectarians—cocksure, contemptuous, intolerant, self-sacrificing after the manner of their kind. They held, as I have said, to their own opinions strongly and would have died rather than renounce, or seem to renounce, them—which did not restrain them from resenting the same attitude of mind and heart in others. What in themselves they admired as loyalty, they denounced in others as interested and malignant stubbornness. More—it did not prevent them from disliking and despising many excellent persons whose opinions, if analysed, would have proved nearly akin to their own. William, for instance, would all but foam at the mouth when compulsory service in the army was the subject of conversation, and "militarism," to him, was the blackest of all the works of the devil; but he was bitter, and violently bitter, against the blackleg who objected to compulsory service in a Trade Union, and had spoken, times without number, in hearty encouragement of that form of siege warfare which is commonly known as a Strike. He was a pacifist of the type which seeks peace and ensues it by insisting firmly, and even to blood, that it is the other side’s duty to give way. Griselda also was a pacifist—when it suited her and when she had got her way. She believed in a future World-Amity, brought about chiefly by Woman; meanwhile, she exulted loudly and frequently in the fighting qualities of her sex. Like William, she had no quarrel with Continental nations; on the contrary, what she had seen of Continental nations during a fortnight’s stay at Interlaken had inclined her to look on them with favour. Like William, her combatant instincts were concentrated on antagonists nearer home; she knew them better and therefore disliked them more. It is a mistake to suppose that either nations or individuals will necessarily like the people they see most of; if you must know a man in order to love him, you seldom hate a man with whom you have not acquaintance. Nothing could have been more ideally peaceful than the relations of China and England during the Middle Ages—for the simple reason that China and England knew absolutely nothing of each other. In the same way, if in a lesser degree, Griselda and William had a friendly feeling for Germany and the German people. They had never been to Germany and knew nothing of her history or politics; but they had heard of the Germans as intelligent people addicted to spectacles, beer and sonatas, and established on the banks of the Rhine. And—the Rhine being some way off—they liked them. As internationalists they had no words too strong for standing armies and their methods; but upon military operations against domestic tyrants they looked with less disapproval. There existed, I believe, in the back of their minds some ill-defined distinction between bloodshed perpetrated by persons clad in uniform and by persons not so clad—between fighting with bayonets and fighting with bombs and brickbats. The one was militarism and unjustifiable; the other heroism and holy. Had you been unkind enough to pen them into a corner and force them to acknowledge that there are many born warriors out of khaki, they would have ended probably by declaring that one should take arms only against tyranny and in a righteous cause—and so have found themselves in entire agreement not only with their adversary but with the Tory Party, the German Emperor, the professional soldier and poor humanity in general. The elect, when one comes to examine them, are not always so very elect. The difficulty would have been to persuade them that there could be two opinions concerning a cause they espoused; their little vision was as narrow as it was pure, and their little minds were so seldom exhausted by thinking. Apostles of the reign of Woman and of International Amity, they might have been summed up as the perfect type of aggressor. With regard to what used to be called culture (before August 1914), the attainments of William and Griselda were very much on a level. They read newspapers written by persons who wholly agreed with their views; they read pamphlets issued, and books recommended, by societies of which they were members. From these they quoted, in public and imposingly, with absolute faith in their statements. Of history and science, of literature and art, they knew nothing, or next to nothing; and, their ignorance being mutual, neither bored the other by straying away from the subjects in which both were interested.... As I have said, their mating was an ideal mating. The period of their engagement was not without its beauty; an ever-present consciousness of their mission to mankind did not prevent them from being blissful as loving young couples are blissful—it merely coloured their relations and spiritualized them. One evening, not long before their wedding, they sat together in Battersea Park on a bench and dedicated their mutual lives to the service of Progress and Humanity. They had invented a suitable formula for the occasion and repeated it softly, one after the other, holding each other’s hands. Griselda’s voice trembled as she vowed, in semi-ecclesiastical phraseology, that not even her great love for William should wean her from her life’s work; and William’s voice shook back as he vowed in his turn that not even Griselda, the woman of his dreams, should make him neglectful of the call of Mankind and his duty to the holiest of causes. It was a very solemn little moment; man and woman, affianced lovers, they dedicated themselves to their mission, the uplifting of the human race. They were spared the doubts which would have assailed wiser heads as to the manner of accomplishing their mission; and as they sat side by side on the bench, with their hands clasped, they knew themselves for acceptable types and forerunners of the world they were helping to create.... Man and Woman, side by side, vowed to service. "We shall never forget this evening," Griselda whispered as the sun dipped down in glory. "In all our lives there can be nothing more beautiful than this." She was right; the two best gifts of life are love and an approving conscience. These twain, William and Griselda, loved each other sincerely—if not with the tempestuous passion of a Romeo and a Juliet, with an honest and healthy affection; they had for each other an attraction which could set their pulses beating and start them dreaming dreams. That evening, on the bench in Battersea Park, they had dreamed their dreams—while their consciences looked on and smiled. They foreshadowed their home not only as a nest where they two and their children should dwell, but as a centre of light and duty—as they understood duty and light; a meeting-place for the like-minded, where fresh courage could be gathered for the strife with prejudice and evil. They pictured themselves (this was in June 1914) as what they would have called Powers—as a man and a woman working for progress and destined to leave their mark. The sense of their destiny awed and elated them—and they walked away from Battersea Park with their hearts too full for speech. On the way home a flaring headline distracted Griselda temporarily from her dreams. "Who’s this Archduke that’s been assassinated?" she asked. (Her morning’s reading had been confined to _The Suffragette_.) "Austrian," William informed her. (He had read the _Daily Herald_.) "Franz Joseph—no, Franz Ferdinand—the heir to the Austrian throne." "Who assassinated him?" his betrothed inquired, not very much interested. "I can’t remember their names," William admitted, "but there seem to have been several in it. Anyhow, he’s been assassinated. Somewhere in the Balkans. With bombs." "Oh!" said Griselda, ceasing to be interested at all. Her mind had turned from traffic in strange archdukes and was running on a high resolve; the solemn vow of service was translating itself into action. "I shall go to the meeting to-morrow," she announced, "and make my protest." William knew what was passing in her mind and made no effort to dissuade her. No more than she dared he let their mutual happiness enervate them—it must urge them to high endeavour, to struggle and sacrifice for the Cause. "I’ll go too," he said simply, "if I can manage to get a ticket." "Oh, I’ll get you a ticket," Griselda told him; "they’re sure to have some at the office"—and thanked him with a squeeze of the fingers that set his pulses beating. She was as good as her word, and the next night saw him in a Cabinet Minister’s audience. From his seat in the arena (their seats were not together and the pair had entered separately) his eye sought for Griselda and found her easily in the first row of the balcony—most obviously composed and with her gloved hands folded on the rail. She was dressed in pale blue, with a flowered toque perched on her head; her blue silk blouse, in view of possibilities, was firmly connected by safety-pins with the belt of her blue cloth skirt, and her hair secured more tightly than usual by an extra allowance of combs. Previous experience had taught her the wisdom of these measures. As usual, in accordance with the tradition of her party, she had insisted in her costume on the ultra-feminine note; her blouse savoured of Liberty and there was a cluster of rosebuds at her breast. She was breathing quickly, so her mouth was more open than usual; otherwise she gave no sign of mental or physical trepidation—save a studied indifference which might have betrayed her to an eye sufficiently acute. To William she looked adorable and his heart swelled with admiration of her courage and determination to sustain her in her protest to the uttermost; he vowed to himself to be worthy of such a mate. He did his best to prove himself worthy when the critical moment came. He waited for that moment during more than three-quarters of an hour—for Griselda was not without confederates, and three ladies in picture hats and a gentleman in the garb of a Nonconformist minister had arisen at intervals to make the running before her voice rang out. All were suppressed, though not without excitement; two of the ladies parted with their hats and the clergyman broke a chair. The chair and the clergyman having been alike removed, the audience buzzed down into silence, and for full five minutes there was peace—until the speaker permitted himself a jesting allusion to the recently exported objectors. A man with a steward’s rosette in his coat was stationed in the gangway close to William; and as the laughter the jest had provoked died away, he swore under his breath, "By God, there’s another in the balcony!" William swung round, saw Griselda on her feet and heard her voice shrill out—to him an inspiration and a clarion, to the steward a source of profanity. "Mr. Chairman, I rise to protest against the speaker’s gross insult to the noble women who——" A man in the seat behind clapped his hands on her shoulders and rammed her back into her chair—where she writhed vigorously, calling him coward and demanding how he dared! His grip, sufficiently hard to be unpleasant, roused her fighting instincts and gave a fillip to her conscientious protest; in contact with actual, if not painful, personal violence, she found it easier to scream, hit out and struggle. Two stewards, starting from either end of the row of chairs, were wedging themselves towards her; she clung to her seat with fingers and toes, and shrieked a regulation formula which the meeting drowned in opprobrium. Conscious of rectitude, the jeers and hoots but encouraged her and fired her blood; and when her hands were wrenched from their hold on the chair she clung and clawed to the shoulder of her next-door neighbour—a stout and orthodox Liberal who thrust her from him, snorting indignation. One steward had her gripped under the armpits, the other with difficulty mastered her active ankles; and, wriggling like a blue silk eel and crowing her indefatigable protest, she was bundled in rapid and business-like fashion to a side entrance of the building. "Cowards!" she ejaculated as she found her feet on the pavement. "Damned little cat!" was the ungentlemanly rejoinder. "If you come here again I’ll pare your nasty little nails for you." And, dabbing a scored left hand with his handkerchief, the steward returned to his duties—leaving Griselda in the centre of a jocular crowd attracted to the spot by several previous ejections. She was minus her rosebuds, her toque and quite half of her hairpins; on the other hand, she held tightly grasped in her fingers a crumpled silk necktie which had once been the property of a stout and orthodox Liberal. She was conscious that she had acted with perfect dignity as well as with unusual courage—and that consciousness, combined with her experience of similar situations, enabled her to sustain with calm contempt the attentions of the jocular crowd. "You’d like a taxi, I suppose, miss?" the constable on duty suggested—having also considerable experience of similar situations. Griselda assented and the taxi was duly hailed. Before it arrived at the kerb she was joined on the pavement by her lover, who had left the meeting by the same door as his betrothed and in much the same manner and condition; he had parted with a shoe as well as a hat, and one of his braces was broken. A hearty shove assisted him down the steps to the pavement where, to the applause of the unthinking multitude, he fell on his knees in an attitude of adoration before Griselda’s friend the constable. Recovering his equilibrium, he would have turned again to the assault; but his game attempt to re-enter the building was frustrated not only by a solidly extended arm of the law but by the intervention of Griselda herself. "You have done enough for to-night, dear," she whispered, taking his arm. "My instructions are not to insist on arrest. We have made our protest—we can afford to withdraw." She led the retreat to the taxi with a dignity born of practice; William, now conscious of his snapped brace, following with less deportment. The vehicle once clear of the jeering crowd, Griselda put her arms round her lover and kissed his forehead solemnly. "My dear one," she said, "I am proud of you." "Oh, Griselda, I’m proud of you," he murmured between their kisses. "How brave you are—how wonderful!—how dared they!... I went nearly mad when I saw them handling you—I hit out, and the cowards knocked me down.... A woman raising her voice on the side of justice—and they silence her with brutal violence——" "It’s only what we must expect, dear," she whispered back, stroking his rumpled hair. "Remember this is War—God knows it’s horrible, but we must not shrink from it." She spoke from her heart, from the profound ignorance of the unread and unimaginative... and once more in the darkness of the taxi the warriors clasped and kissed. CHAPTER III After the usual hesitations and excursions they had settled on their future home—a tiny flat in Bloomsbury, central and handy for the perpetual getting about to meetings which was so integral a part of their well-filled, bustling lives. They furnished it lovingly and with what they considered good taste; Griselda brought in her friends to admire, and engaged a respectable woman who was to "do" for them and have all in readiness when they returned from their four weeks’ honeymoon—and they were as foolishly happy over their nest as any other loving little couple. They were married towards the end of July—to be exact, on the twenty-third day of the month. The wedding took place in Balham from the house of Griselda’s aunt; the ceremony was performed by an enlightened vicar who had consented to omit the ignoble vow of obedience; and the church was thronged to its doors with comrades and ardent sympathizers. The advanced Press spread itself over the description of the ceremony and—in view of the fact that the bridesmaids, six in number, had all done time for assault—even the Press that was not advanced considered the event worth a paragraph. The pair were snapshotted on leaving the church with the customary direful results, and the modest residence of Griselda’s aunt could hardly accommodate the flood of progressive guests. There was rice and slipper-throwing and a whirl of good wishes—and Griselda, flushed, looked pretty, and in William’s eyes quite lovely. They left by an afternoon train for Dover and crossed the next day to Ostend. Their selection of the Belgian Ardennes for a honeymoon was due to Griselda’s long-standing acquaintance with a cosmopolitan female revolutionist understood to be of Russian Polish extraction. Owing, it was further understood, to her pronounced opinions and pronounced manner of expressing them, she had long ceased to be welcome in the land that gave her birth; at any rate, she avoided it studiously and existed chiefly at a series of epoch-making revolutionary meetings which she addressed by turns in bad German, worse French, and worst English. She wrote vehement pamphlets in all these languages and prided herself on the fact that, on the Continent at least, they were frequently suppressed by the police; wore tartan blouses, a perennial smile, and a hat that was always askew. For some reason or another she was the possessor of a cottage in the heart of the Belgian Ardennes—which she visited on the rare occasions when she was not plying her epoch-making activities in London, Vienna, or New York. A week once a year was about all the use she made of it—reappearing after her seven days’ seclusion with a brace of new pamphlets burning for the Press, and like a giant refreshed for the fight. This estimable woman was as good-natured as she was revolutionary, and hearing that Griselda was thinking of a rural honeymoon, she hastened to offer the happy couple the loan of her Belgian property, which was as secluded as heart could desire. Griselda, since her fortnight at Interlaken, had hankered for another stay abroad; she jumped at the offer, and William—whose acquaintance with foreign parts was limited to an International Socialist Congress in Holland—-jumped gladly in unison with her. Madame Amberg beamed with joy at their delighted acceptance of her offer; she kissed Griselda, shook hands with William and promised to make all the necessary arrangements for their stay—to write to the old woman who looked after the cottage and tell her when to expect them. She babbled rhapsodically of honeymoons and the joys of the Forest of Arden—forgetting how bored she was in the Forest of Arden at the end of a seven-days’ stay there—and further directed them how to reach it, looked out trains and suggested hotels. Heaven smiled on the opening of their married life; Dover was a receding beauty in the distance and the Channel a good-natured lake. As their boat chunked between the long piers of Ostend they held and squeezed each other’s hands ecstatically, the crowd collecting on the gangway side enabling them to do so unnoticed. The consciousness of their total ignorance of the language of the country gave them an agitated moment as they set foot on foreign soil—but, taken in tow by a polyglot porter, they were safely transferred from the quay to a second-class carriage, with instructions to change at Brussels; and, having changed obediently, were in due course set down at Namur. Madame Amberg had advised them to lodge with economy at the Hotel de Hollande near the station; but another specimen of the polyglot porter pounced down and annexed them firmly for his own more distant establishment, and after a feeble resistance they followed him meekly and were thrust with their bags into the omnibus lying in wait for them. They felt it their duty as the vehicle rattled them along to make a few depreciatory and high-principled remarks on the subject of the towering fortifications; but having thus satisfied their consciences they relapsed into mere enjoyment of rest, novelty, a good dinner, and a view of the lazy Meuse. After dinner, when the fortress above them was fading into the soft blackness of a warm summer night, they walked arm-in-arm by the river and were quite unutterably happy. They rose early in the morning to catch the little river boat for Dinant; caught it with the aid of their guardian, the porter, and camped side by side on its deck to enjoy the sauntering trip. They enjoyed it so much and engrossingly that for the space of a morning they forgot their high principles, they forgot even Woman and Democracy; they were tourists only, agape and delighted, with their green Cook’s tickets in their pockets. Yet, after all, they were something more than tourists; they were young man and woman who loved each other tenderly and whose happy lives were in tune with the happy landscape. Often they forgot to look at the happy landscape for the joy of gazing into each other’s dear blue eyes. The boat puffed finally to Dinant, where they stayed the night as planned; where they stared at the cupola’d church and the cliffs, walked to the split rock on the road to Anseremme, and bought some of the gingerbread their guide-book had told them to buy. They ate it next day, with no particular approval, on the final stage of their journey, in a train that puffed and pottered between heights and orchards in the winding company of a stream. It puffed and pottered them at last to their wayside destination—where a smiling and loutish country boy slouched up to take possession of them and their modest baggage. They understood not a word of his thick-throated patois, but knew from information imparted beforehand by Madame Amberg that this was their housekeeper’s grandson and deputed to serve as their guide. He gripped a bag easily in either hand, and led the way past the few small houses ranged neatly as a miniature village alongside the miniature station—and so by the white road that kept the river company. After a mile or thereabout they left the white road, turning sharply to the right at a cleft in the riverside cliff and striking a cart-track, scarcely more than a path, into a valley twisted back among the hills. It was a valley the like of which they had never seen, which the world seemed to have forgotten; a cool green vision of summer and solitary peace. Water had cleft in the table-land above them a passage that time had made leafy and gracious and laid aside for their finding. Through the flat, lush pastures that divided the bold slopes there looped and tangled a tiny brook on its way to the Meuse and the sea, a winding ribbon of shadow, of shimmer and reflection. Up the slopes rising steeply from the pastures there clustered tree above tree—so thickly set that where the valley dwindled in the distance they might have been moss on the hill-side. There was no one in sight and no sound but their footsteps and the birds; it was all a green prettiness given over to birds and themselves. "Isn’t it wonderful?" Griselda said, not knowing that her voice had dropped and lost its shrillness. "I never thought there could be such a place." She spoke the truth, if in hackneyed and unthinking phrase; in her busy and crowded little mind, the reflection of her busy little life, there had been no room for visions of a deep and solitary peace. Involuntarily, as they walked they drew nearer together and went closely side by side; the sweet aloofness of the valley not only amazed them, it awed them; they were dimly conscious of being in contact with something which in its silent, gracious way was disquieting as well as beautiful. Their theory and practice of life, so far, was the theory and practice of their purely urban environment, of crowds, committees and grievances and cocksure little people like themselves—and lo, out of an atmosphere of cocksureness and hustle they had stepped, as it seemed without warning, into one of mystery and the endless patience of the earth. Out here, in this strange overpowering peace, it was difficult to be conscious of grievances political or ethical; instead came a new, undefined and uneasy sense of personal inadequacy and shrinkage, a sense of the unknown and hitherto unallowed-for, a fear of something undreamed of in their rabid and second-hand philosophy.... Not that they reasoned after this fashion, or were capable of analysing the source of the tremor that mingled with their physical pleasure, their sheer delight of the eye; but before they had been in the valley many hours they sympathized in secret (they did not know why) with Madame Amberg’s consistent avoidance of its loveliness, saw hazily and without comprehension why, for all her praise of its beauties, she was so loth to dwell there. The place, though they knew it not, was a New Idea to them—and therefore a shadow of terror to their patterned and settled convictions. As such their organized and regulated minds shrank from it at once and instinctively—cautiously apprehensive lest the New Idea should tamper with accepted beliefs, disturb established views and call generally for the exercise of faculties hitherto unused. They had an uneasy foreboding—never mentioned aloud by either, though troublous to both—that long contact with solitude and beauty might end by confusing issues that once were plain, and so unfitting them for the work of Progress and Humanity—for committees, agitations, the absorbing of pamphlets and the general duty of rearranging the universe. There was something, probably, in the frame of mind in which they approached the valley; they came of a migratory, holiday race, and had seen green beauty before, if only fleetingly and at intervals. What they had lacked before was the insight into beauty born of their own hearts’ content, the wonder created by their own most happy love.... They followed their guide for the most part in silence, relieved that he had ceased his well-meaning attempts to make them understand his jargon, and speaking, when they spoke at all, in voices lowered almost to a whisper. "What’s that?" Griselda queried, still under her breath. "That" was a flash of blue fire ahead of them darting slantwise over the stream. Later they learned to understand that a flash of blue fire meant kingfisher; but for the moment William shook his head, nonplussed, and hazarded only, "It’s a bird." For half-an-hour or so it was only the birds and themselves; then at a turn in the narrowing valley they came in sight of cows nuzzling the pastures. Several cows, parti-coloured black and white like the cows of a Noah’s Ark; and, further on, a tiny farm house standing close up to the trees in its patch of vegetable garden. They knew from Madame Amberg of the existence of the tiny farmhouse; it was an old woman living there who would "do" for them during their stay at the neighbouring cottage—cook and clean and make tidy in return for a moderate wage. The barking of a kennelled nondescript brought the old woman shuffling to the door—to welcome them (presumably) in her native tongue and to take their measure from head to heel with a pair of shrewd, sunken eyes. Of her verbal greetings they understood nothing but the mention of Madame Amberg; but, having looked them up and down enough, the old lady shuffled back into her kitchen for the key of the revolutionist’s property. She reappeared with the key in one hand and a copper stewpan in the other—wherewith she waved the signal to advance, and shuffled off in guidance, ahead of her grandson and the visitors. A quarter of an hour’s more walking on a dwindling path brought them in sight of their sylvan honeymoon abode; it had originally been built for the use of a woodman, and was a four-roomed cottage on the edge of the wood overlooking the stream and the pasture of the black-and-white cows. Madame Peys (they knew at least her name) unlocked the door and ushered them into the kitchen, where the boy deposited their bags. CHAPTER IV The cottage was what any one who know Madame Amberg might have expected her cottage to be. It was sparsely furnished, except with explosive literature; there were very few chairs, and those few verging on decrepitude, but numerous tracts and pamphlets in divers civilized languages. Kitchen utensils were conspicuous chiefly by their absence, and presumably the owner relied consistently on the loan of the copper stewpan which had accompanied her guests from the farm. On the other hand, the kitchen walls were adorned by photographs, more or less fly-blown, of various political extremists, and a signed presentment of Rosa Luxemburg adorned a bedroom mantelpiece. While Madame Peys made play with the stew-pan and a kettle, the honeymoon couple unpacked their bags and examined their new domain: still, to a certain extent, overawed by the silence and loneliness around it; still, unknown to themselves, speaking more gently and with more hesitation than usual. It was the familiar tang of the books and pamphlets, with which the shelves were crammed and the floor was heaped, that first revived their quieted spirits and created a sense of home. Woman and Democracy, even on the backs of books, had power to act as a tonic and trumpet-call, to reflect the atmosphere of noise and controversy where alone they could breathe with comfort. With unconscious relief they turned from the window and the prospect of the valley, green and untenanted, to entrench themselves against the assaults of the unknown behind the friendly and familiar volumes that had overflowed from Madame Amberg’s deal book-shelves to Madame Amberg’s uncarpeted floor. Conning them, handling them and turning their pages, they were again on the solid ground of impatient intolerance; they were back amongst their own, their cherished certainties. William in the presence of Belfort Bax felt his feet once more beneath him; Griselda, recognizing a pamphlet by Christabel Pankhurst, ceased to be troubled by the loneliness around her, grew animated and raised her voice.... And the savoury mess which Madame produced from her stewpan, combined with the no less excellent coffee that followed, dispelled for the moment the sense of mystery and the shadow of the New Idea. The shadow obtruded itself more than once during the next three weeks or so; but on the whole they managed with fair success to be in the country and not of it—to create in the heart of their immemorial valley a little refuge and atmosphere of truly advanced suburbia. Their existence in the Ardennes valley was one of mutual affection and study—by which latter term they understood principally the reading of books they agreed with. From the cares and worries of housekeeping they were blissfully and entirely free; Madame Peys did their catering, taking toll, no doubt, of their simplicity and ignorance of French, but taking it with tact and discretion. Her bills were a weekly trouble to Griselda but not on account of their length; what she disliked was the embarrassing moment when she strove to conceal her complete ignorance of the items and difficulty in grasping the total as set forth in un-English-looking ciphers. Their tidying was also done daily and adequately, their cooking more than adequately; Madame Peys called them in the morning, set the house to rights and their various meals going, and looked in at intervals during the day, departing for the last time when supper was cooked and laid. Their daily doings fell naturally into routine; they rose of a morning to coffee steaming on the stove; and, having digested their breakfast, they usually proceeded to walk a little, concluding the exercise by sitting under the trees with a book which William read aloud to Griselda. They lunched sometimes in picnic fashion, sometimes at home; in the afternoon took another stroll or sat at home reading, with happy little interludes of talk. On two or three days they made small excursions to one of the neighbouring villages; on others William, with a pen and a frown of importance, would establish himself at the table after lunch was cleared away; he had a tract in hand on the Woman Question, and Griselda gently but firmly insisted that even in the first ecstasy of their honeymoon he should not lay it aside. Having a due sense of the value of his epoch-making work, he did not require much pressing; and while he frowned and scribbled and frowned and paused, she would sit by reading, and now and again glance up that she might meet his eye and smile. Long afterwards, months afterwards, when he had forgotten the epoch-making work and all he had meant to prove by it, he would remember how she had risen and come behind him, smoothing and fondling his ruffled hair and bending over to kiss him. He would drop his pen and lift his face to hers, sometimes in silence and sometimes murmuring foolishness. In time, as the peaceful days crept by, they were sorry that, yielding to a romantic impulse, they had directed that neither paper nor letter should be forwarded during their absence. As a result of this prohibition their entire correspondence while they stayed in the valley consisted of one picture-postcard despatched by Madame Amberg from Liverpool at the moment of her embarkation for an extended lecture tour in the States. It was sent three days after their wedding, and expressed exuberant affection, but was singularly lacking in news of the outside world. To remove the prohibition would be to confess failure and suggest boredom, therefore neither ventured to hint at it; all the same, they knew in their secret hearts that they had overrated their resourcefulness. It was not that they palled on each other—far from it; but part at least of their mutual attraction was their mutual interest in certain subjects and limited phases of activity. Madame Amberg’s revolutionary library, valuable as it was in distracting their thoughts from the silence and beauty around them and defending them against the unknown, could not entirely supply the place of daily whirl and unceasing snarl and argument; William pined unconsciously for the din and dust of the platform and Griselda missed the weekly temper into which she worked herself in sympathy with her weekly _Suffragette_. She missed it so much that at last she was moved to utterance—late on a still, heavy evening in August, when once or twice there had come up the valley a distant mutter as of thunder. "Dear," she said gently, as they sat by the window after supper, "I don’t know
counters with clenched fists or pewter pots. It was noised abroad that Bill had taken lunch at the "Shearer's Arms." A few of the astute townspeople, with their weather eye open, determined to shepherd him and dog his footsteps. The landlord hoped to "lamb" him down. The Melbourne coach suddenly came out of a cloud of dust, and drew up at the door. Bill was expecting it. He quickly paid his bill, and arranged to send his horse to grass for three months. Then he went outside, and sauntered up and down with the air of a man who had come to stay and enjoy himself. The bystanders gazed their fill, and gloated over the hid treasure that was supposed to be stowed away in his pockets. "All aboard!" shouted the coachman from the box seat. "Wait a moment!" said Bill while he sprang up beside him. "All right, driver!" The off-leader got the tip on the right ear from the whip, which wakened his front half and made it spring in the air. Away the four horses went, scattering a flock of geese which was picking up a living on unconsidered trifles. There was a roar of disappointment from the astute ones. "Blast 'im! if 'e 'asn't give us the slip!" said one. "D----!" said another. Another swore at large; hissing, red-hot, as from a furnace. Another hastily unfastened the bridle of a horse from a hitching-post--which horse belonged to a respectable farmer--jumped on the animal's back, and went clattering down the street in chase of the coach. He said to himself, "He won't throw _me_ off his tracks, darn him! I'll see where he goes!" This man followed the coach till it was beyond the auriferous country, and far into the night; then his horse, which had shown unmistakable signs of giving in, refused to go another step. At twelve o'clock next day Bill arrived in Melbourne. He did not say a word to any one about the gold. He kept the secret locked. He had settled it in his own mind that he was holding the money as a sacred trust for Mary. He was only the custodian, and not the owner. The whole affair was bordered and fringed with the miraculous. His first concern was to find Mary. That was the platform. "Seek, and ye shall find." That was the first plank. How it would shape who could tell? He would try to fit all the pieces into their places in his rough stumbling fashion, and leave a higher Power to do the smoothing and joining. He was in love with Mary, and hoped to get "spliced" some day. "Marriages are made in heaven." He had unbounded faith that there would be one on earth soon. He went to the _Argus_ office, and wrote an advertisement, in which he described Mary and the old man as well as he could, and stated that she would receive a legacy on application to B. M. Next day he got an armful of letters from Marys who had lost a father, and hoped they had found a legacy. He was astonished to find how many girls so exactly answered the description of the Mary he was in search of. Before night he had written and posted letters to all the applicants, requesting them to meet him at his hotel next day. At the hour appointed for the interview, babies in arms, children, young women, middle-aged ones, toothless spinsters, and grandmothers, were sent in to him, one after another, and dismissed with scant courtesy. His Mary was not among them. He haunted the streets by day, and the theatres by night, in the hope of seeing her. He would know her eyes anywhere. If he met her he would almost greet her as an old friend, so well did he seem to know her. Weeks passed away. As he could find no tidings of her he was getting downhearted, and was almost giving up the search, when, as he was passing along Brunswick Street, an interesting, youthful girl came out of a shop, and walked on before him. Something about her attracted his attention, and he followed her. She was evidently a servant. Suddenly she stopped at the gate of a respectable house, and turned her face towards him. Her eyes flashed across his bows, revealing the object he was in search of, as a harbour light reveals the port. It was his Mary! He was not quite so sure the next moment, for her face underwent a change. The temporary brightness had disappeared; the lights were out, and a hopeless sorrow seemed to rest upon it. There was no feature he could identify. He stood bewildered, and then she was gone. He was conscious of a closing door. "I was a fool!" he said. "Why didn't I ask her if her name was Mary, and settle the matter off-hand, receipt the account, and think no more about it. At the first glance I could have sworn she was Mary; at the next she seemed to have retired behind a veil, and was not the same--only a pretty girl with a melancholy cast of countenance. My imagination is playing tricks." His hands shook, and his knees trembled. He supported himself by the railings in front of the house. Looking up, he saw a policeman eyeing him with suspicion, so he walked away to avoid being made a gazing-stock. When he got to the end of the block, he upbraided himself for not making inquiries at the house into which the girl entered. He went back, and stood at the railings, taking a mental inventory of the house from the sky line to the earth line. A notice in the window, that board and residence might be had within, gave him an idea. He had thought of changing his lodgings, so he would knock at the door and make inquiries. He rapped, and a servant came. He had expected that the other girl would appear, and flash her eyes at him as before. "I came to make inquiries about board and residence," he stammered. "I'll call Mrs. Blenners; walk in, sir." He walked in, and Mrs. Blenners walked in behind him. She had seen him from the window, and was ready, like a tug steamer, to take him in tow, and bring him to good anchorage, with room to swing between the front parlour and the best bedroom, where he might spend his days in comfort and his nights in peace. He looked at the best bedroom, and inspected the front parlour. He liked them; then hummed and hesitated, and had a question on the tip of his tongue about the girl he had followed, but drew it back just in time, as he reflected that so prim and well-starched a lady as Mrs. Blenners would extinguish him as she would a candle, and leave him in the dark--then farewell to further inquiry in this quarter. Seeing him hesitate, and thinking he might slip through her fingers, she went into action, and fired argument, persuasion, and flattery at him. Before he knew his whereabouts he was carried by storm, and surrendered, paying the first indemnity in the shape of a fortnight's board and lodging. "I shall come to-morrow," he said. He went to his hotel, but could not rest. The face he had seen visited him in the night, and he was sleepless. Sometimes he felt sure he had found Mary, and was glad; but doubts would march in again, and his hopes were elbowed out of the way. CHAPTER VII About five o'clock the next day the rumble of a cab was heard by Mrs. Blenners, who was lying in wait. "It is Mr. Marlock!" she shouted, with two concave hands at her mouth; "show him into the best bedroom." Bill was ushered in by the servant who had opened the door the day before, and was swept up the stairs with his portmanteaux. When the bell rang for tea he went down to the front parlour, where twelve lodgers were already seated at table. Mrs. Blenners tossed her head towards Bill, and said, "Mr. Marlock"; then made her forefinger travel round the table, like the hour hand of a clock, while she ticked off the boarders, one by one, and repeated their names. Introductions over, they all fell to on the viands with the energy of the feeder of a sewing-machine going at full speed. Bill was on the watch, but the girl he was in search of did not appear. He heard Mrs. Blenners say to Annie the waiting maid, "Tell Mary to make more toast." "This is hopeful," thought Bill; "but Mary is such a common name." A week passed away, but he had not seen Mary. He was beginning to get impatient, and meditated a walk into the kitchen when Mrs. Blenners was upstairs. Just when this thought came into his mind he heard her say, in a stage whisper, "Mary, you have forgotten the slops." The rattle of an iron pail was heard, and a light footstep ascended the stair. He waited, and watched for Mary to come down. When she was coming down he was going up. They met halfway. She looked scared, as she was caught carrying the slops, which should only be removed when no man person was near. She would not look him in the face, so he could not see her eyes, and the light was bad. She was certainly something like his Mary, but not altogether. His Mary had a bright face; this one was sad. Sorrow had limned it, and grief had sculptured it. He went into his room, and found that the washstand was in disorder, so he knew the girl would come up again as soon as he was out of the way. In the impulse of the moment he took the photograph of Mary, and the letter she had written to her father, and placed them prominently on the washstand; then he ostentatiously went downstairs to the parlour, and shut the door. As he expected, the girl went to his room, which was just overhead. In a short time he heard a scream, and a heavy body falling. Instinctively he understood, and ascended the stair like a flying shadow. The girl lay white and motionless, with the letter in her hand. The scene required no explanation. It told its own tale. She reminded him of the old man, lying stiff and stark, by the side of the creek. He ran to the door, and, with a voice of urgency, shouted, "Mrs. Blenners!" "Mercy! that's the new lodger," said Mrs. Blenners to Annie; "do you think he's mad, or dr----, I mean elevated?" She dropped the rolling-pin on the paste-board with a clatter, and dashed her face with flour in her excitement, then fled upstairs as fast as her tottering legs would carry her. From the top of the landing she looked into the best bedroom, and there, to her horror, she saw Mary lying on the floor, apparently dead. "Murder!" she screamed. Annie, hearing this blood-curdling word, rushed out of the front door, and fell into the arms of a policeman, whispering "Murder." The policeman, seeing the open door, went into the hall, and saw Mrs. Blenners wringing her hands, like wet cloths, over the banisters. He took four flying leaps, and stood beside her. "What's the matter?" he said. She silently pointed at the best bedroom. At that moment Bill put his head out at the door, and said, "She'll be all right soon!" He had dashed water in her face, and had put a pillow under her head. Mrs. Blenners and the policeman bent over her as she was opening her eyes. "She fainted," said Bill. A doctor was sent for. He bustled up the stairs in a few minutes, and said to Mary, "How are you now?" She gave him no answer. "Ah, ah! I see," he said, "we must exhibit a little sal-volatile." "Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Blenners. "We don't want to exhibit her any more. She's made an exhibition of herself enough already. Such a thing never happened in my house before. Mr. Marlock, I'm sorry this has occurred in your room." "I'm not," said Bill; "I've been hoping and praying to find her for a long time. Look at that photograph, and tell me if it is Mary's portrait." "Yes! it's the very moral of her." "Well! I've found her." "Found her out, do you mean?" said Mrs. Blenners. "Are you a detective? A wolf in sheep's clothing--which devour widows' houses! I thought you was a respectable single gentleman. I'm ashamed of you! Mary's as good a girl as you'll find in a summer day's march." "You mistake my meaning, Mrs. Blenners; Mary has been left some money, and I have been looking for her, and have found her here, like a diamond in a--a--gutter," he said, for want of a better word at the moment. "Gutter! forsooth," she said. "Do you liken my house to a gutter?" "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Blenners; I meant to say like a diamond glittering in the golden setting of your most respectable house. Besides, I have to thank you for giving me the opportunity of finding her here. I'm sure you've been kind to her." "Kind! I've been a mother to that girl." "Where is my father?" said Mary, looking wildly around. "Poor girl!" said Mrs. Blenners; "she hasn't heard from her father for months, and she thinks he's dead." "He is dead," Bill whispered to Mrs. Blenners. "Then she might have seen his ghost." Mary now sat up, and pointed to the letter which was still in her hand. "Where did you get that?" she said to Bill, "and that?" pointing to the photograph. Bill told as much as he thought necessary, while the girl rose to her feet. Gradually, and as gently as possible, he told her of her father's death, also that he had advertised for her, and now, after a long time, had found her, and that she was the owner of thousands of pounds. Mary could hardly believe her ears. She seemed to hear the words in a dream, and did not understand the meaning of them. They appeared to be the echo of something she had heard long ago. In a short time she had recovered her usual composure, and was told, in the privacy of Mrs. Blenners' own room, the sad particulars of the finding of her father's body. She wept as if her heart would break. Then, bit by bit, he told the rest of the story--about the inquest, the funeral, the gold-reef, its great richness, and that the wealth obtained from it, amounting to thousands of pounds, was hers. At the same time he handed her the bank deposit receipt, and said, "It is all yours." "No!" she said, "you are too generous." She positively declined to take it till she had time to think the matter over. "This is all high falutin!" said Mrs. Blenners. She took the practical view of the question, and hurried away, with Mary under her wing, to one of the best shops in Bourke Street, where she bought, greatly to her delight, the best black materials for many dresses, besides bonnets, hats, gloves, etc. Mary was a passive instrument to be played on for her delectation. Mrs. Blenners spent a few happy hours. Shopping was a fine art which thrilled her soul. Money was of no consequence. It was like the "Old Man" plain of Riverina--there was no end to it. Bill Marlock had told her to spend as much as she liked. "That's a large order!" she said. "Cut and come again; she's rolling in riches," said Bill. So Mrs. Blenners had set off on the shopping campaign with a light heart. For the next few weeks Mary and Bill were much together, she questioning, he informing her of everything she wished to know about her father, and of all that he himself had done on her father's behalf. She thought Bill was one of the kindest and most disinterested of men. When she was suitably attired in deep mourning, she was allowed to accompany Bill to the bank, to draw such moneys as were required, but Mrs. Blenners insisted on going with them for propriety's sake. They often, however, managed to get away when she was busy with her household duties, and had many pleasant excursions into the city and suburbs. They were both happy in each other's company. On one of these excursions, Bill advised her to apply for a lease of the land comprised in the Devil's Punch Bowl, and have it thoroughly worked for the rich gold which was there. "There is a great fortune lying there, and it's all yours, Mary," he said. "And what will you do if I apply for the lease?" "You might make me manager of the mine, if you can trust me," he said. "Trust you! I would trust you with all I have got." "If you will trust me with yourself, Mary, that is all I ask. I have loved you ever since I saw your photograph in the tent." They looked at each other, and saw the honest light of love shining in each other's eyes. She trusted him with herself, and has never regretted doing so. The lease was applied for, and granted. The Devil's Punch Bowl became a scene of activity. A house was built on its rim for Bill and Mary. Men were employed to work the mine. Machinery was erected, and the stampers were soon playing merrily to the tune of five hundred ounces of gold a week. Many years have passed away, but the mine is still worked with fair results. Bill and Mary have every reason to rejoice at the good fortune brewed for them in the Devil's Punch Bowl. Bill has not forgotten his old friends of Yantala woolshed; for Norman Campbell, Jack Jewell, Tom Wren, Peter Amos, Sandy McKerrow, the stalwart giant with the shock of red hair, and others, are in positions of trust at the mine, and swear by him. Their children grow up and call him blessed. LANKY TIM CHAPTER I The evening air was hot and oppressive. Whisperings of a north wind came over the hills. The old gum-tree, which grew over the homestead, quivered, and turned the edges of its leaves to catch the silvery light of a new moon, which cut its way across the sky. The swish-swish of wild cats and the cries of opossums were heard. A weird boom, from bittern or bunyip, came from the swamp, and the curlew's solemn call echoed in the ranges. "Just the time for love!" So thought Lanky Tim, who stood leaning against the doorpost of the kitchen. He seemed to be holding it up with the angle of his left shoulder. The light of a great, blazing fire fell upon his sharp, handsome face. Annie Coonie, the cook, was bending over a large basin into which honey was dripping from a sack hanging by a hook over the mantelpiece. Two of the station hands had cut down a "bee-tree" on Vinegar Hill, and had brought home the contents of the hive. The honey was coming from the sack as clear as amber and smelling of wattle-blossom. "Now, listen to me, Annie," said Tim; "you're as sweet as honey, by a deal: that's the blasted truth, an' no mistake about it." "Oh, go away, Tim! you'll not earn your pound a week, an' found, by holdin' up that post--chances are you'll carry it away like as Samson carried off the gates of Gaza." "Who's he, Annie? Seems I've heard o' him. I'd more likely carry you off. I'll make a lady of you if you'll only say yes. You'll have a silk dress, a diamond ring, an' servants to wait on you. I've got 640 acres of good land, two houses in Melbourne, an' money in the bank. Just say you'll be mine, and they are yours!" "Nonsense! Rich men don't work for twenty shillin' a week, an' live in a slab-hut." "I only do it, Annie, to be near you, an' that's no lie." "'Near, an' yet so far,' as the dog said to the 'possum up the gum-tree." "If you'll only marry me, you'll never need to work another stroke, Annie. We'll go to the theayter every night, an' be as happy as the day is long." "Samson carried the jawbone of the ass in his hand; you carry it in your head. Clear out! If Alec comes he'll give you a good hiding." Alec was Annie's sweetheart, and she expected him any moment. She was loyal to him, never allowing her thoughts to wander to any of the many suitors for her hand. She was a selector's daughter, and the _belle_ of all the Broken River district. "Alec's a poor sort of chap for a handsome girl like you to marry," said Jim. Annie's face was aflame in a moment. Before a rough sarcasm could rattle out of her mouth, a big figure darted across the open door. An arm shot out and gave Lanky Tim a clout in the ear, which sent him sprawling on the ground. He scrambled up in a hurry, and disappeared behind the projecting stone chimney. Alec, for it was he, went into the kitchen laughing, and rubbing his knuckles, which had been jarred by coming in contact with Tim's ear. "I saw Tim making love to you, Annie," said Alec. "What did you say to him?" "Not a word; but he'll hear my reply tingling in his ear for a long time." "I told him you would give him a good hiding. He said he had 640 acres of land, two houses in Melbourne, an' money in the bank. He offered to give me all if I would marry him." "The hound!" said Alec; "he hasn't 640 pence to bless himself with. He's the greatest bragger in Australia. When the boss took him on he had hardly a shirt to his back. He hadn't been a week on the station when he made out as how he was a nobleman's son in disguise, an' that his uncle had left him a stack of money, but he wouldn't take it yet, as he wanted to get Colonial experience." "It's my opinion," said Annie, "that he left the shirt you speak of with his uncle, to raise the wind which blew him up here. It's all blow with him!" "Blowed if I can make him out," said Alec. "Last week he said he had found a gold-mine. Yesterday he bragged he had discovered diamonds. The more a man brags the less in his bags. The less a man knows the more he blows." "That basin is about full of honey, Alec. Reach down another, an' put it under the bag while I take the full one away. So, that will do." Alec seated himself on a chair, as far from the fire as he could, and mopped his brow with a whitey-brown handkerchief. The heat of the kitchen was stifling. It was hot enough outside; here it was almost unbearable. Annie was as cool as a cucumber. She was accustomed to a roaring fire, even when the thermometer stood at a hundred degrees in the shade. A fit of silence came over Alec. He knitted his brows, and looked thoughtful. Jealousy was creeping into his heart, although he did all he could to shut it out. There it was, however, and had taken possession. Annie took a wicked delight in his misery. She saw what was the matter with him. "Lanky Tim said I was as sweet as honey." "Blast Lanky!" said Alec, scowling. "You can't brag like Lanky Tim!" retorted Annie. "No, I give him best at that! Dang him, if I don't give him pepper before I go to bed this night." "Or mustard," said Annie. "He may need a poultice." Silence reigned for awhile, broken only by the loud tick of the clock on the mantelpiece and the drip of the honey. How long this state of things would have lasted no one knows. Just at this acute stage a loud scream was heard from the front of the homestead. A rushing of feet and banging of doors followed. Annie and Alec jumped up, made for the door, ran round the dwelling-house to the end of the verandah, and listened. CHAPTER II Woorong station was owned by an old Scotchman named McKeel. He was of medium height, red-haired, somewhat bald, with blue eyes, aquiline nose, large mouth, and an inquiring face, sprinkled with freckles, like patches of clay on a ploughed field; wrinkled with the chiselling of many years and the rubs of fortune. He was standing in one of the front rooms, speaking to Mrs. McKeel, and David, his son. "Ma dears, this wee eenstrument ye see in ma han' is desteened to save the lives o' mony o' the sons o' Adam wha may be bruised i' the heel, as the Scripture has it, by the serpent; which I tak' to mean ony beast o' the breed, either whip snake, black snake, brown snake, or tiger snake. If a man or woman, or bairn for that matter, is bitten by a snake, let them be brocht to me, as quick as may be, an' I'll inject into their foreairm a drap or twa o' ammonia, which I hae got frae Melbourne this vera day, alang wi' this eenstrument, by post." "How wonderful, papa!" said Mrs. McKeel. "I don't believe it," said David. "What can ye expec' frae a pig but a grunt," said his father, turning savagely round; "ye are sceptical, Daavid, in things above an' things beneath. Ye dinna follow the sayings o' ye'r namesake the sweet singer o' Israel. A greater than him said, 'Ye will not believe.'" "Well, father, I wasn't meaning to say I did not believe you; but what I wanted to say was I did not think this hypodermic injection of ammonia, by the instrument you speak of, will cure snake-bite." "Weel, weel, seein's beleevin'! The proof o' the pudden is the preein' o't. When ye'r opeenion is asked ye may speak; no till then!" "I am sorry, father." "Sorry here, sorry there, will never cure a man who is bitten by a snake, or by the Auld Serpent himsel', wha is the Deevil. Pit that in ye'r pipe an' smoke it!" This was a knock-down blow from which David could not come up smiling. He raked the ashes of the fire smouldering within him, and smothered it. He had to let off the smoke by breathing hard. His father looked at him and said, "Ye'r namesake says, 'he puffeth at them.' My advice is keep ye'r breath to cool ye'r porridge." David was about to reply, but a warning touch, under the table, from his mother's foot, made him pause. A piercing scream was heard outside, and a rushing of feet. The old man looked over his spectacles towards the door in momentary fright. David stood up waiting. Mrs. McKeel said, in a low voice, "Papa! what's that?" They had not long to wait. A man bounded over the low fence which enclosed the verandah, then ran to the door and opened it with a loud bang. It was Lanky Tim. His eyes were starting from their sockets. He had no hat. His hair hung in a dishevelled mass over his forehead, like an inverted last year's nest. He had the look of a madman. He sank on the sofa and moaned. "What is the maiter wi' ye, Lanky?" said old McKeel, now thoroughly alarmed. "I have been bitten by a snake," groaned Lanky, through his set teeth. "Ma sang!" said McKeel, "ye've come to the richt shop. Whaur's the bite?" "Here," said Lanky, pointing to the calf of his left leg. Then he curved his body like a bent bow, and made the most hideous grimaces, lapsing into an idiotic stare. "Jist the seemptoms," said McKeel, as he quietly filled the little instrument, which he still held in his hand, with a drop of liquid ammonia. "Noo, Daavid," he said, "rax me the brandy bottle, an' pit it doon beside me; then hold Lanky's leg while I mak' the injection." David did as he was told. His father pinched the leg, just above the marks of the snake-bite; then he inserted the point of the instrument into the flesh. Lanky jumped as if he had been shot, and capered about the room. The injector fell from the old man's hand. An oath nearly slipped off his tongue, but he caught it back just in time, and said: "Dog-on it, man! you're deed as a sheep in a butcher's shop if ye'll no be still till I get the ammonia inside o' ye!" "Brandy," said Lanky faintly, sinking again on the sofa. Mrs. McKeel poured out a tumblerful, and handed it to David, who put it to Lanky's lips. The liquor went down his throat with a gurgle like storm-water into a culvert. "I feel better," he said faintly; "that did me good!" "Don't you lippen to brandy," said McKeel, "it never cured a true case o' snake-bite. You jist let me inject a drop o' ammonia into ye, there's a good fallow! It's the new pan-a-kee." "Panacea! father," said David. "Pan-a-fiddlestick," said the old man. "If that's it, fire away!" said Lanky. Old Mr. McKeel filled the injector again, and inserted it in the puncture he had already made, then squirted its full contents in the flesh, with a force that sent the needle-point nearly to the bone. The effect was magical. Lanky roared like a bull, and threw up his legs, knocking old McKeel head-over-heels. In the fall he struck the ammonia bottle, which was standing on a chair, and tipped it over, spilling the contents. "That was the effec' o' the mediceen! It was instantaneous! He got the strength o' three men in a meenit. He's a'richt; he's cured!" said McKeel. Lanky fell back on the sofa, writhing and wriggling like one possessed. Alec and Annie Coonie, who had heard and seen everything through the window, which had no curtain, now opened the door and came in. "Can we do anything?" they said. "Yes, Alec," said old McKeel; "you tak' a horse an' ride across the range to the mine for Max Hicsh. He's a sort o' doctor body, who was a student at Gott-again." "Göttingen, father," said David. "I have na time to argal-bargle wi' ye," said his father, "but I say it's Gott-again. Weel! he has a decree, I believe." "Degree, father," said David. "Losh! I'm no sayin' there is na degrees among doctors; some wise an' some foolish, jist the same as sons. Ye mind me o' a preacher, servin' what he calls the gospel frae an empty spoon oot o' a hogshead fou o' naething. Howsoever, it's life an' death noo! Sa, bring Max as quick as ye can, Alec." Alec ran to do the old man's bidding, with Annie at his heels. "Tell my mother to come," she said; "she knows as much about snake-bite as any doctor." When she had given him this message she went back to the room where Lanky was lying. CHAPTER III A great change had now taken place in the patient's condition. Convulsive movements of a violent kind had set in. Old McKeel was alarmed. David was cynical, and doubted the symptoms. "Brandy," said Lanky, in a whisper. He gulped a tumblerful down, smacked his lips, and stared around. "Where am I?" he said; "oh! I see." "That's a guid sign!" said old McKeel. "The ammonia's workin'." "Mr. McKeel," said Lanky very feebly, "I'm goin' to die, an' I want to make my will." "Vera weel; I'm a magistrate, an' I'll attest it. Ma wife an' son will be witnesses." Mrs. McKeel, with tears in her eyes, placed pens, ink, and paper on the table. The old man seated himself, and adjusted his spectacles. He looked over them and said, "What d'ye want me to say?" "I leave everything I have to Annie Coonie." "My!" said Annie, in a whisper. McKeel scribbled away as fast as he could, shedding ink all around him. After writing for a few minutes he turned to his son and said, "Give him mair brandy, and don't let him sleep." "Can ye gi' me some parteeclars o' what ye want to leave Annie Coonie?" McKeel said to Lanky. "Yes; £500 in the Savings Bank, £750 in the Union Bank, and £1000 in the Bank of Australasia." "Gosh!" ejaculated McKeel. "O my!" said Annie, as she threw her apron over her head. "Ony other parteeclars?" "Yes, six hundred and forty acres of land." "The man's cracked!" muttered McKeel to himself. "It's the ammonia makin' his heed licht. They a' get crazy on land." "Ony other parteeclars?" "Yes, two houses in Melbourne." "Ony other?" said McKeel, looking dubiously at Lanky. "Yes, £15,000 left me by my Uncle Tom." McKeel looked up in astonishment. Seeing Annie at the door he could not help saying, "I congratulate you, Annie." "Is Annie here?" whispered the patient. "Step forrit, Annie," said McKeel. Lanky took her hand. She was crying. "Don't cry for me," he said; "only say you love me. It will be a great consolation to me. You see how _I_ love you." "Oh yes," she sobbed; "I hope you will not die. You'll soon be better." "Never! but I die happy with your hand in mine." At this moment Mrs. Coonie, Annie's mother, came in. She was a little woman, with a clay-coloured face, and dressed in the same hue. She took possession of the case at once with a business-like air. "Plenty of brandy," she said; "then march him up and down. If he is allowed to sleep, he is a dead man. Black snake, or tiger?" "Tiger," whispered Lanky. "Then there's no hope," she said, turning to McKeel; "he'll die when the moon goes down. That's the time they die when bitten by a tiger-snake. At the sea it's when the tide goes out." "Then there's nae time to lose," said the old man; "I'll read the will in the hearin' o' ye a'. Attend to what I say, Lanky." "I'm listenin'," he whispered. McKeel pulled the lamp nearer, adjusted his spectacles, and read as follows:-- "_This is the last Will and Testament of me, Timothy Wilber, at present residing at
Some arrangement was made with his creditors, and Sir John was released; whereupon Lord Anglesea went to the Prince of Wales, and insisted upon his giving Lade five hundred a year out of his Privy Purse--no easy task, one may imagine, for “Prinney” was not given to providing for his old friends. William IV. continued the annuity, but reduced it to three hundred pounds, and it was feared that at his death it would be discontinued. However, when the matter was put before Queen Victoria, she, hearing that Sir John was in his eightieth year, generously expressed the intention to pay the pension, which she put as a charge on her Privy Purse, for the rest of his life. Sir John was thus freed from anxiety, but he did not long enjoy her Majesty’s bounty, for he died on 10th February 1838, having outlived his wife by thirteen years. A more interesting and a more intelligent man was George Hanger, who born in 1751, and, after attending a preparatory school, was sent to Eton and Göttingen, and was gazetted in January 1771, an ensign in the first regiment of Foot Guards. In the army he distinguished himself chiefly by his harum-scarum mode of living, and by his adventures, most of which were of too delicate a nature to bear repetition, though his quaint “Memoirs” throw a light upon the company he kept. He met a beautiful gipsy girl, styled by him “the lovely Ægyptea of Norwood,” who, according to his account, had an enchanting voice, a pretty taste for music, and played charmingly on the dulcimer. She won his heart with a song, the refrain of which ran: “Tom Tinker’s my true love, And I am his dear; And all the world over, His budget I’ll bear.” He married her according to the rites of the tribe, introduced her to his brother officers, and bragged to them of her love and fidelity; but, alas! the song which enchanted him was based, not upon fiction, but upon fact, and after Hanger had lived in the tents with his inamorata for a couple of weeks, he awoke one morning to learn she had run off with a bandy-legged tinker. For some years he remained in the Foot Guards, where he was very popular with his brother officers; but in 1776 he threw up his commission in anger at someone being promoted over his head, unjustly, as he thought. His early love of soldiering, however, was not yet abated, and he sought and obtained a captaincy in the Hessian Jäger corps, which had been hired by the British Government to go to America. He was delighted with his new uniform--a short, blue coat with gold frogs, and a very broad sword-belt--and, thus attired, swaggered about the town in great spirits, to the accompaniment of his friends’ laughter. During the siege of Charlestown he was aide-de-camp to Sir Henry Clinton; he was wounded in an action at Charlottetown in 1780, and two years later was appointed Major in Tarleton’s Light Dragoons, which regiment, however, was disbanded in 1783, when Hanger was given the brevet rank of Colonel, and placed on half pay. At the close of the war Hanger left America for England, but his affairs were in such an unsettled state that he thought it advisable to go direct to Calais, where he remained until his friend, Richard Tattersall, could arrange his affairs. Hanger attributed his insolvency at this time to the fact that the lawyer to whom he had given a power of attorney having died, his estate was sold for the benefit of the mortgagee at half its value. This is probably true, but it is certainly only a half-truth, for his embarrassment was mainly caused by his extravagance when he was in the Foot Guards. He did not often play cards, but he was passionately fond of the turf, kept a stable at Newmarket, and bet heavily on all occasions, though it is said that on the whole he was a considerable winner, and it is recorded that he won no less than seven thousand pounds on the race between Shark and Leviathan. His pay in the Foot Guards of four shillings a day did not, of course, suffice even for his mess-bills, and he wasted much money on dissipation, and more on his clothes. “I was extremely extravagant in my dress,” he admitted. “For one winter’s dress-clothes only it cost me nine hundred pounds. I was always handsomely dressed at every birthday; but for one in particular I put myself to a very great expense, having two suits for that day. My morning vestments cost me near eighty pounds, and those for the ball above one hundred and eighty. It was a satin coat _brodé en plain et sur les coutures_, and the first satin coat that had ever made its appearance in this country. Shortly after, satin dress-clothes became common among well-dressed men.”[2] [2] “Life, Adventures, and Opinions of Colonel George Hanger.” On his return to England, Hanger stayed with Tattersall for a year, and then was engaged in the recruiting service of the Honourable East India Company at a salary which, with commission, never amounted to less than six hundred pounds a year; and he was also appointed, with a further three hundred pounds a year, an equerry to the Prince of Wales, with whom he was on very intimate terms. The next few years were the happiest of his life, but misfortune soon overcame him. His employment under the East India Company came to an abrupt end owing to a dispute between the Board of Control and the Company, relative to the building of a barrack in this country to receive the East India recruits prior to embarkation, which ended in a change of the whole system of recruiting, when Hanger’s services were no longer required. This was bad enough, but worse was to come, for when he had served as equerry for four years, the Prince of Wales’s embarrassed affairs were arranged by Parliament, which, making the essential economies, dismissed Hanger. When this happened, having no means whatever with which to meet some comparatively trifling debts, he surrendered to the Court of King’s Bench, and was imprisoned within the Rules from June 1798 until April in the following year, when the successful issue of a lawsuit enabled him to compound with his creditors. “Twice have I begun the world anew; I trust the present century will be more favourable to me than the past,” he wrote in his “Memoirs”; and it is much to his credit that instead of whining and sponging on his friends, having only a capital of forty pounds, he started in the business--he called it the profession--of coal-merchant. According to Cyrus Redding, who used to meet him at the house of Dr Wolcot (“Peter Pindar”), Hanger had fallen out of favour with the Prince by administering a severe reproof to that personage and to the Duke of York for their use of abominable language, and was no longer invited to Carlton House. This, however, does not ring true, for Hanger’s language was none of the choicest, and if there was any disagreement, this can scarcely have been the cause. Indeed, if at this time there was a quarrel, it must soon have been made up; and undoubtedly the twain were on friendly terms long after, for when Hanger was dealing in coal, the Prince, riding on horseback, stopped and made friendly inquiry: “Well, George, how go coals now?” to which Hanger, who had a pretty wit, replied with a twinkle, “Black as ever, please your Royal Highness.” Certainly Hanger felt no grievance concerning the alleged quarrel, for in his “Memoirs” he spoke in high terms of the heir-apparent in a passage that deserves to be read, as one of the few sincere tributes ever paid to the merits of that deservedly much-abused person. Whether through the influence of the Prince of Wales or another, Hanger was in 1806 appointed captain commissary of the Royal Artillery Drivers, from which he was allowed to retire on full pay two years later, a proceeding which drew some observations from the Commissioners of Military Inquiry in their seventeenth report, to which Hanger published an answer. As the years passed, however, the free manners and the coarse outspokenness of the Colonel jarred on the Prince, and slowly the men drifted more and more apart, after which the former moved in less distinguished and probably less vicious company. The first Lord Coleraine had long since been dead; Hanger’s eldest brother, the second Baron, had followed his father to the grave, and the title was now enjoyed by his second brother, William, popularly known as “Blue” Hanger, from the colour of the clothes he wore in his youth. Charles Marsh declared him to be “perhaps the best-dressed man of his age,” which is an ambitious claim for any person in the days when clothes were more regarded in fashionable society than anything else in the world; but that there was some ground for the statement cannot be doubted, since “Tom” Raikes reiterates it. “He was a _beau_ of the first water, always beautifully powdered, in a light green coat, with a rose in his buttonhole. He had not much wit or talent, but affected the _vieille cour_ and the manners of the French Court; he had lived a good deal in Paris before the Revolution, and used always to say that the English were a very good nation, but they positively knew not how to make anything but a kitchen poker. I remember many years ago, the Duchess of York made a party to go by water to Richmond, in which Coleraine was included. We all met at a given hour at Whitehall Stairs, and found the Admiralty barge, with the Royal Standard, ready to receive us, but by some miscalculation of the tide, it was not possible to embark for near half-an-hour, and one of the watermen said to the Duchess, ‘Your Royal Highness must wait for the tide.’ Upon which Coleraine, with a very profound bow, remarked, ‘If I had been the tide I should have waited for your Royal Highness.’ Nothing could have been more stupid, but there was something in the manner in which it was said that made everyone burst out laughing.” “Blue” Hanger, it will be seen, was as remarkable for his politeness as for his satire! Heavy losses at the card-table forced William Hanger to go abroad to avoid his creditors, and he remained in France until the death of his elder brother in 1794, when, able to settle his affairs, he returned, completely transformed in manners and appearance into a Frenchman. Thereby hangs the story that, shortly after he arrived in England, he went to Drury Lane, when, next to him in the dress circle sat a stranger wearing top-boots. This would have been regarded as a gross breach of etiquette in France, and Lord Coleraine was not inclined to brook this affront to the company because he was in England. “I beg, sir, you will make no apology,” he said, with an innocent and reassuring air. His neighbour stared in blank amazement. “Apology, sir! Apology for what?” he demanded angrily. “Why,” said “Blue,” pointing to the offending boots, “that you did not bring your horse with you into the box.” “Perhaps it is lucky for you I did not bring my _horsewhip_,” retorted the other, in a fine frenzy of passion; “but I have a remedy at hand, and I will pull your nose for your impertinence.” Whereupon he threw himself upon Lord Coleraine, only to be dragged away by persons sitting on the other side of him. Cards were exchanged between the combatants, and a duel seemed imminent. “Blue” went at once to his brother to beg his assistance. “I acknowledge I was the first aggressor,” he said, in anything but a humble frame of mind; “but it was too bad to threaten to pull my nose. What had I better do?” To which the unfeeling Colonel made reply, “_Soap it well_, and then it will easily slip through his fingers!” This characteristic advice George Hanger was never weary of repeating, and he insisted that when anyone wished to calumniate another gentleman, he ought to be careful to take the precaution to _soap his nose_ first. “Since I have taken upon myself the charge of my own sacred person,” he said, returning to the subject in his “Memoirs,” “I never have been pulled by the nose, or been compelled to soap it. Many gentlemen of distinguished rank in this country are indebted to the protecting qualities of soap for the present enjoyment of their noses, it being as difficult to hold a soaped nose between the fingers as it is for a countryman, at a country wake, to catch a pig turned out with his tail soaped and shaved for the amusement of the spectators.” “Blue” Hanger died on 11th December 1814, when the title and estates devolved upon the Colonel, who, however, could never be persuaded to change his name. “Plain George Hanger, sir, if you please,” he would say to those who addressed him in the more formal manner. It has generally been supposed that this was merely another of the peer’s many eccentricities, but there was a kindly reason for it. “Among the few nobility already named,” wrote Westmacott in the long-forgotten “Fitzalleyne of Berkeley,” “more than one raised modest birth and merit to their own rank; one made a marriage of reparation; nay, even the lord rat-catcher,[3] life-writer (and it was his own), and vendor of the black article of trade, was faithful to his engagements where the law bound him not; and one of his reasons for forbidding his servants to address him as ‘My Lord’ was that she might bear his name as Mrs Hanger.” [3] Hanger wrote a pamphlet on rat-catching. Hanger, now in the possession of a competence, made little change in his manner of living, and though death did not claim him until 31st March 1824, at the age of seventy-three, he never again went into general society. At the time of his succession to the peerage he was residing, and during the last years of his life he continued to reside, at Somers Town, whence he would occasionally wander, shillelagh in hand, to the “Sol Arms,” in Tottenham Court Road, to smoke a pipe. This has been so often repeated, to the exclusion of almost any other particulars of his life, that the comparatively few people who have heard of Hanger think of him as a public-house loafer; but this was far from being the case, for if he went sometimes to the “Sol Arms” he would also go to Dr Wolcot to converse with the veteran satirist, or to Nollekens, the sculptor; or he would ride on his grey pony so far as Budd & Calkin’s, the booksellers in Pall Mall, where, leaving his horse in charge of a boy--for he never took a groom with him--he would sit on the counter, talking with the shopkeepers and their customers. Nor was Hanger illiterate, as were so many of the associates of his early years, and he wrote very readable letters; but his intelligence does not rest only on his correspondence, for he was an industrious writer on military subjects. Reference has already been made to his autobiography, which appeared in 1801 under the title of “The Life, Adventures, and Opinions of Colonel George Hanger”; but though it was stated on the title-page that the volumes were “Written by Himself,” it has since transpired that they were compiled from his papers and suggestions by William Combe, the author of “The Tours of Dr Syntax.” It is an unpleasant work, and deals frankly with subjects tacitly avoided by present-day writers; but it is not without value, for it contains, besides excellent descriptions of debtors’ prisons and the rogueries of attorneys at the end of the eighteenth century, common-sense views on social subjects--views much in advance of the general opinions of the day--and a frank avowal of hatred of hypocrisy. This last quality induced Hanger maliciously to relate a story of a dissenter who kept a huxter’s shop, where a great variety of articles were sold, and was heard to say to his shopman, “John, have you watered the rum?” “Yes.” “Have you sanded the brown sugar?” “Yes.” “Have you wetted the tobacco?” “Yes.” “Then come in to prayers.” The “Memoirs” will perhaps best be remembered for Hanger’s famous prophecy that “one of these days the northern and southern Powers [of the United States] will fight as vigorously against each other as they have both united to do against the British.” It is, however, not as a soldier, a pamphleteer, or a seer that Hanger has come down to posterity; and while some may recall that in 1772 he distinguished himself by being one of the gentlemen who, with drawn swords, forced a passage for the entry of Mrs Baddeley into the Pantheon, and eight and thirty years later rode on his grey palfrey in the procession formed in honour of the release of Sir Francis Burdett, it is for his eccentricities and his humour that he is remembered. Nollekens has related how one day he overheard Lord Coleraine inquire of the old apple-woman at the corner of Portland Road, evidently an old acquaintance, who was packing up her fruit, “What are you about, mother?” “Why, my Lord, I am going home to tea.” “Oh! don’t baulk trade. Leave your things on the table as they are; I will mind shop till you return”; and the peer seated himself in the old woman’s wooden chair, and waited until the meal was over, when he solemnly handed her his takings, threepence halfpenny. Although Cyrus Redding declared that Hanger was well known in his day for an original humour which spared neither friend nor foe, and although Hanger could sneer at those who accepted the invitations to dinner that Pitt was in the habit of sending to refractory members of his party--“The rat-trap is set again,” he would say when he heard of such dinner-parties: “is the bait _plaice_ or paper?”--there were many who found themselves in a position to praise Hanger’s generosity. We have it on the authority of Westmacott--and there can be no surer tribute than this, since Westmacott would far rather have said a cruel than a kind thing--that Hanger never forgot a friend or ignored an acquaintance because he had fallen upon evil days. When an out-at-elbows baronet came to see him, Hanger received him heartily, insisted upon his remaining as his guest for some time, and, summoning his servants, addressed them characteristically: “Behold this man, ye varlets! Never mind me while he is here; neglect me if ye will, but look upon him as your master; obey him in all things; the house, the grounds, the game, the gardens, all are at his command; let his will be done; make him but welcome, and I care not for the rest.” For his kind heart much may be forgiven Hanger; and who could be angry with a man who possessed so keen a sense of humour as is revealed in this story? Late one night he went into his bedroom at an inn, and found it occupied. The opening of the door awoke an irate Irishman, the occupier, who inquired in no measured terms: “What the devil do you want here, sir? I shall have satisfaction for the affront. My name is Johnson.” Aroused by the clamour, a wizen-faced woman by Johnson’s side raised her head from the pillow. “Mrs Johnson, I presume?” said Hanger dryly, bowing to the lady. Sir Lumley St George Skeffington had at least more claim to distinction than most of his brother fops, though it was their habit to sneer at him, especially after Byron had given them the cue. Born on 23rd March 1771, Lumley was educated at Henry Newcome’s school at Hackney, where he showed some taste for composition and poetry, and took part in the dramatic performances for which that institution had been noted for above a century. On one occasion there he delivered an epilogue written by George Keate, the subject of which was the folly of vanity; but the lad did not take the lesson to heart, for so soon as he was his own master he set up as a leader of fashion. At an early age he began to be talked about, and such notoriety was the _open sesame_ to Carlton House. The Prince of Wales condescended to discuss costume with the young man, who, thus encouraged, was spurred to fresh efforts, and acquired fame as the inventor of a new colour, known during his lifetime as Skeffington brown. Indeed, Skeffington, who was vain of his personal appearance--though, it must be confessed, without much reason--dressed in the most foppish manner; and as an example may be given a description of his costume at the Court held in honour of the King’s birthday in 1794: “A brown spotted silk coat and breeches, with a white silk waistcoat richly embroidered with silver, stones, and shades of silk; the design was large baskets of silver and stones, filled with bouquets of roses, jonquilles, etc., the _ensemble_ producing a beautiful and splendid effect.” Though elated at being recognised as a _beau_, Skeffington did not desert his first love, and he mixed much in theatrical society, and became on intimate terms with many of the leading actors, including Joseph Munden, John Kemble, Mrs Siddons, and T. P. Cooke. He was an inveterate “first-nighter,” and would flit from theatre to theatre during the evening; but he was not content to be a hanger-on to the fringe of the dramatic profession, and desired to be a prominent member of the _coterie_. He had abandoned any idea of following up his youthful successes as an actor, but he had so early as 1792, at the age of one and twenty, made his bow as an author, with a prologue to James Plumptre’s comedy, _The Coventry Act_, performed at the latter’s private theatre at Norwich. Spurred by the praise bestowed upon this trifle, he penned complimentary verses to pretty actresses; but after a time he aspired to greater distinction, and endeavoured to secure literary laurels by the composition of several plays. His _Word of Honour_, a comedy in five acts, was produced at Covent Garden Theatre in 1802, and in the following year his _High Road to Marriage_ was staged at Drury Lane; but neither of these had any sort of success, and it was not until _The Sleeping Beauty_ was performed at Drury Lane, in December 1805, that the author could look upon his efforts with any pride. To judge from a contemporary account, _The Sleeping Beauty_, with music by Addison, was an agreeable, albeit an over-rated, entertainment of the nature of an extravaganza. “Mr Skeffington,” we are told, “has not confined himself to the track of probability; but, giving the rein to his imagination, has boldly ventured into the boundless region of necromancy and fairy adventure. The valorous days of Chivalry are brought to our recollection, and the tales which warmed the breasts of youth with martial ardour are again rendered agreeable to the mind that is not so fastidious as to turn with fancied superiority from the pleasing delusion. The ladies in particular would be accused of ingratitude were they to look coldly upon the Muse of Mr Skeffington, who had put into the mouths of his two enamoured knights speeches and panegyrics upon the sex, which would not discredit the effusions of Oroondates, or any other hero of romance.” The book of the play was never printed, but the song, duets, and choruses of this “grand legendary melodrama” were published, and so it is possible to form some opinion of the merits of this production of the author, who is described by a writer in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_ as “the celebrated Mr Skeffington... a gentleman of classic genius, [who] it is well known figures high in the most fashionable circles.” It is to be feared that Skeffington’s fame as a man of fashion threw a glamour upon this critic, for to modern eyes the “classic genius” is nowhere in evidence, although the verses certainly do not compare unfavourably with the drivel offered by the so-called lyric writers whose effusions figure in the musical comedies of to-day. Unexpectedly, however, _The Sleeping Beauty_ achieved immortality, though not an immortality of the pleasantest kind, for the piece attracted the attention of Byron, who pilloried it in his “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers”: “In grim array though Lewis’ spectres rise, Still Skeffington and Goose[4] divide the prize: And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays, Renown’d alike; whose genius ne’er confines Her flight to garnish Greenwood’s gay designs; Nor sleeps with ‘sleeping beauties,’ but anon In five facetious acts come thundering on, While poor John Bull, bewilder’d with the scene, Stares, wond’ring what the devil it can mean; But as some hands applaud--a venal few-- Rather than sleep, John Bull applauds it too.” [4] Dibdin’s _Mother Goose_, which ran for a hundred nights at Covent Garden. For years before this satire appeared Skeffington was a personage in society, and if his plays secured him undying notoriety at the hands of the satirist, his costume was to produce the same result by the attention drawn to it by Gillray, who represented him, in 1799, as “Half Natural,” in a Jean de Bry coat, all sleeves and padding, and in the following year in a second caricature as dancing, below which is the legend: “So Skiffy skipt on, with his wonted grace.” In these days, indeed, his appearance offered a very distinct mark for the caricaturist. Imagine a tall, spare man, with large features, sharp, sallow face, and dark curly hair and whiskers, arrayed in the glory of a dark blue coat with gilt buttons, yellow waistcoat, with cord inexpressibles, large bunches of white ribbons at the knees, and short top-boots! But in latter years Skeffington went even further, for he distinguished himself by wearing a _vieux-rose_ satin suit, and a wig, and rouging his cheeks and blacking his eyebrows and eyelashes, until he looked like a French doll; while the air in his vicinity was made noxious by the strong perfumes with which he drenched himself. Horace Smith summed him up as “an admirable specimen of the florid Gothic,” and Moore lampooned him in Letter VIII. of _The Twopenny Post Bag_, from “Colonel Th-m-s to Sk-ff-ngt-n, Esq.”: “Come to our _fête_, and bring with thee Thy newest best embroidery, Come to our _fête_, and show again That pea-green coat, thou pink of men, Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it; When Brummell’s self enquired: ‘Who made it?’ Oh! come (if haply ’tis thy week For looking pale) with paly cheek; Though more we love thy roseate days, When the rich rouge pot pours its blaze Full o’er thy face, and amply spread, Tips even thy whisker-tops with red-- Like the last tints of dying day That o’er some darkling grove delay. Put all thy wardrobe’s glories on, And yield in frogs and fringe to none But the great Regent’s self alone.” Skeffington’s success with _The Sleeping Beauty_ occurred at the time when he was most prominent in society. “I have had a long and very pleasant walk to-day with Mr Ilingworth in Kensington Gardens, and saw all the extreme crowd there about three o’clock, and between that and four,” Lord Kenyon wrote to his wife on 1st June 1806. “The most conspicuous figure was Mr Skeffington, with Miss Duncan leaning on his arm. He is so great an author that all which is done is thought correct, and not open to scandal. To be sure, they looked rather a comical pair, she with only a cap on, and he with his curious whiskers and sharp, sallow face.” Gradually, however, as time changed, Skeffington was left behind in the race, and was no longer regarded as a leader of fashion, and at the same time he was not fortunate enough to win further success as a dramatist, for his _Mysterious Bride_ in 1808, his _Bombastes Furioso_ played at the Haymarket in 1810, and his _Lose no Time_, performed three years later at Drury Lane, were each and all dire failures. In January 1815 Sir William Skeffington died, and Lumley succeeded to the baronetcy. Sir William, however, had embarrassed his estates, and Lumley, to save his father from distress, had generously consented to cut the entail, and so had deprived himself of a considerable fortune. The comparatively small amount of money that now came to him had been forestalled, and he was compelled to seek refuge for several years within the rules of the King’s Bench Prison. Eventually, though he failed in the attempt to regain an interest in the estates of his maternal family, the Hubbards, at Rotherhithe, he came into possession of an estate worth about eight hundred pounds a year; but when he came again upon the town his old friends showed a marked disposition to avoid him; and when one day Alvanley was asked who was that solitary, magnificently attired person, “It is a second edition of _The Sleeping Beauty_,” he replied wittily; “bound in calf, richly gilt, and illustrated by many cuts.” Skeffington now resided quietly in Southwark, where he still entertained members of the theatrical profession, but no longer the leaders of the calling, only the members of the adjacent Surrey Theatre. Henry Vizetelly met him towards the end of his life, and described him as “a quiet, courteous, aristocratic-looking old gentleman, an ancient fop who affected the fashions of a past generation, and wore false hair and rouged his cheeks,” who had, he might have added, a large fund of _histoires divertissants_ with which to regale his visitors. He outlived all his brother dandies, but to the end would wander in the fashionable streets, recalling the glories of his early manhood, attracting attention in his long-waisted coat, the skirts of which descended to his heels, but recognised by none of the generation that had succeeded his own. In other circles, however, he found listeners interested in his stories of the palmy days of Carlton House, when he was one of the leaders of fashion in society and prominent in the _coulisses_. He died, unmarried, in his eightieth year, and attributed his long life to the fact that he did not stir out of doors in the cold, damp winter months, but moved from room to room so as never to remain in vitiated air. In conclusion it must be pointed out that Skeffington’s popularity was largely contributed to by his good humour and vivacity, and by the fact that in an age when wit spared nobody he was never known to say an unkind word of anyone; nor was the reason for this, as was said of another _beau_, that he never spoke of anyone but himself. “As to his manners, the suffrages of the most polished circles of this kingdom have pronounced him one of the best bred men of the present times, blending at once the decorum of what is called the _vieille cour_ with the careless gracefulness of the modern school; he seems to do everything by chance, but it is such a chance as study could not improve,” so ran a character sketch of the dandy in _The Monthly Review_ for 1806. “In short, whenever he trifles it is with elegance, and whenever occasion calls for energy he is warm, spirited, animated.” He had, however, his share of the _nonchalance_ affected by the fashionable folk of his day, and the story is told that when, on a visit to a gentleman in Leicester, he was disturbed in the night with the information that the adjoining house was in flames, his sole comment was that this was “a great bore”; and when with difficulty he had been induced to move quickly enough to escape into the street, there, standing in his nightdress, bareheaded and with his hair in papers, he called out, “What are these horrid creatures about with so much filthy water, that I cannot step without wetting my slippers?” Some Exquisites of the Regency When Almack’s Club, composed of all the travelled young men who wore long curls and spying-glasses, was in 1778 absorbed by Brooks’s, the day of the Macaronis was past. Then, as Wraxall records, Charles James Fox and his friends, who might be said to lead the Town, affecting a style of neglect about their persons and manifesting a contempt of all the usages hitherto established, first threw a sort of discredit on dress. “Fox lodged in St James’s Street, and as soon as he rose, which was very late, had a _levée_ of his followers and of the members of the gambling club at Brooks’s--all his disciples,” Walpole wrote. “His bristly black person, and shagged breast quite open and rarely purified by any ablutions, was wrapped in a foul linen nightgown, and his bushy hair dishevelled. In these cynic weeds, and with epicurean good humour, did he dictate his politics, and in this school did the heir of the Crown attend his lessons and imbibe them.” The young Prince of Wales might study statecraft under Fox; but in the matter of dress he fell in line with the new race of _beaux_, bucks, or, to use a word that came into general use at this time, dandies. The most famous of the latter were Lord Petersham, Lord Foley, Lord Hertford (immortalised by Thackeray in “Vanity Fair” as the Marquis of Steyne, and by Disraeli in “Coningsby” as Lord Monmouth), the Duke of Argyll, Lord Worcester, Henry Pierrepoint, Henry de Ros, Colonel Dawson Darner, Daniel Mackinnon, Lord Dudley and Ward, Hervey Ashton, Gronow the memoirist, Sir Lumley Skeffington, and Brummell. These exquisites were disinclined to yield the palm even to an heir-apparent with limitless resources. The Prince of Wales, however, contrived to hold his own. At his first appearance in society he created a sensation. He wore a new shoe-buckle! This was his own invention, and differed from all previous articles of the same kind, insomuch as it was an inch long and five inches broad, reaching almost to the ground on either side of the foot! This was good for an introduction to the polite world, but it was not until he attended his first Court ball that he did himself full justice. Then his magnificence was such that the arbiters of fashion were compelled reluctantly to admit that a powerful rival had come upon the
to proceed from a thin stratum of quicksand which is found to alternate with the marl at distances of from ten to forty feet, below which bowlders of considerable size are found. The spouting springs have been found by experimental boring. As this is the cheapest and more certain method, it is "the popular thing" at present, and the day may not be far distant when all Saratoga will be punched through with artesian wells reaching hundreds of feet, if not through to China, and thus an open market made for the Saratoga waters among "the Heathen Chinee." Mr. Jessie Button, to whom we are indebted for both the Glacier and the Geyser springs, seems best to understand the process of successfully boring artesian wells, having made these his special study and profession. Like Moses of old, he strikes, or taps, the rock and behold streams of water gush forth. Are the Springs Natural? Is a question that will probably seem absurd to those who are at all familiar with mineral springs or Saratoga waters. Nevertheless, it is a not unfrequent and amusing occurrence to hear remarks from strangers and greenies who have a preconceived notion that the springs are doctored, and that a mixture of salts, etc., is tipped in every night or early in the morning! Strange that the art should be limited to the village of Saratoga! The _incredulity_ of some people is the most ridiculous credulity known. Such wonders as the spouting springs, the "strongest" in Saratoga, come from so small an orifice in the ground, as to preclude the least possibility of adulteration. Besides, the manufactured article would be too costly to allow such immense quantities to flow away unused. But to argue this question would be a _reductio ad absurdum_. _Nature is far better than the laboratory._ Artificial waters may simulate the natural in taste and appearance, but fall far short of their therapeutic effects. The Commercial Value Of the various springs differs as widely as does people's estimate of their individual merits. Spring water property is very expensive. It costs large sums of money to manage some of the springs. The old method of tubing, by sinking a curb, may cost several thousand dollars, and is uncertain then. Moreover, it is no small work to keep the springs in perfect repair, and in a clean and pure condition. The artesian wells cost not far from $6 per foot for the boring, and are much less expensive. Most of the springs are owned by stock companies, with a capital ranging from several hundred thousand to a million dollars. _On dit_ that the proprietors of the Geyser Spring were offered $175,000 for their fountain, and probably the Congress could not be purchased for quadruple that amount. It would not be a _very_ profitable bargain if some of the springs could be bought for a song, even, and yet there is not enough mineral water in all the springs now discovered in the Saratoga valley to supply New York alone, if artificial waters were to be abandoned. The only profit of the springs is in the sale of the water in bottles and barrels; and as the method of bottling requires great care, and is expensive, the per cent. of profit is not enormous. The use of mineral water, both as a beverage and for medicinal purposes, is increasing, and there may be "a good time coming," when these springs will bring wealth to the owner as they give health to the drinker. The Medicinal Value of the Waters. There is no doubt of their power to promote evacuations of effete accumulations from the kidneys, skin and bowels. Dr. Draper, an eminent physician, in speaking of the springs, says: "They restore suppressed, and correct vitiated secretions, and so renovate health, and are also the means of introducing many medicines into the system in a state of minute subdivision, in which they exert a powerful alterative and curative action." The value of mineral water has been shown in the treatment of obscure and chronic diseases. In many instances persons have been restored to health, or greatly relieved, by the use of mineral waters when all other remedies had proved of no avail. The best known waters are now prescribed by the faculty in certain diseases with as much confidence as any preparation known to the apothecary. Indeed, no prescription is known equally beneficial to such differently made patients. A large majority of those who resort to the springs for their health have tried other means of cure without relief. It may also be considered a marked compliment to the medicinal properties of the waters, that the thousands who come here for pleasure merely, living fast and indulging in dissipation while here, return to their homes in better health--as they almost always do--than when they came. Unlike certain other springs, whose wonderful properties and vaunted cures are found in pompous advertisements, the Saratoga waters have not made their celebrity by printer's ink. Their reputation has depended upon their own intrinsic merits, and steadily and surely has their renown advanced. To repeat all the disorders which they have been known to benefit, would be very nearly to copy the sad list of ailments to which our creaky frames are subject. In short, spring water is good for the stomach, good for the skin, good for ladies of all possible ages, and for all sorts and conditions of men. Individual Characteristics. In stating the special properties of the individual springs, we have conscientiously endeavored to make this work as reliable and accurate as possible. Those who are familiar with the reputation and claims of some of the several springs in past years will notice many changes, but it is believed that the information herein given is on the best authority, and brought down to the latest date. _The Analyses of the Saratoga Waters, by C.F. Chandler, Ph.D., of the Columbia School of Mines._ ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Compounds as they exist \| Star \| High \| Seltzer \| Pavilion\| United in Solution in the Waters. \| Spring. \| Rock \| Spring. \| Spring.\| States \| \| Spring. \| \| \| Spring. ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Chloride of sodium \| 398.361 \| 390.127 \| 134.291 \| 459.903 \| 141.872 Chloride of potassium \| 9.695 \| 8.974 \| 1.335 \| 7.660 \| 8.624 Bromide of sodium \| 0.571 \| 0.731 \| 0.630 \| 0.987 \| 0.844 Iodide of sodium \| 0.126 \| 0.086 \| 0.031 \| 0.071 \| 0.047 Fluoride of calcium \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Bicarbonate of lithia \| 1.586 \| 1.967 \| 0.899 \| 9.486 \| 4.847 Bicarbonate of soda \| 12.662 \| 34.888 \| 29.428 \| 3.764 \| 4.666 Bicarbonate of magnesia \| 61.912 \| 54.924 \| 40.339 \| 76.267 \| 72.883 Bicarbonate of lime \| 124.459 \| 131.739 \| 89.869 \| 120.169 \| 93.119 Bicarbonate of strontia \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| 0.018 Bicarbonate of baryta \| 0.096 \| 0.494 \| Trace. \| 0.875 \| 0.909 Bicarbonate of iron \| 1.213 \| 1.478 \| 1.703 \| 2.570 \| 0.714 Sulphate of potassa \| 5.400 \| 1.608 \| 0.557 \| 2.032 \| Trace. Phosphate of soda \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| 0.007 \| 0.016 Biborate of soda \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Alumina \| Trace. \| 1.223 \| 0.374 \| 0.329 \| 0.094 Silica \| 1.283 \| 2.260 \| 2.561 \| 3.155 \| 3.184 Organic Matter \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Trace. \| Trace. ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Total per \| \| \| \| \| U.S. gallon, 231 cu. in.\| 617.367 \| 630.500 \| 302.017 \| 687.275 \| 331.837 ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Carbonate acid gas \| 407.650 \| 409.458 \| 324.080 \| 332.458 \| 245.734 Density \| 1.0091 \| 1.0092 \| 1.0034 \| 1.0095 \| 1.0035 Temperature \| 52°F. \| 52°F. \| 50°F. \| ... \| ... ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Compounds as they exist \| Hathorn \| Crystal \|Congress \| Geyser in Solution in the Waters. \| Spring. \| Spring. \| Spring. \|spouting (Continued) \| \| \| \| well. ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Chloride of sodium \| 509.968 \| 328.468 \| 400.444 \| 562.080 Chloride of potassium \| 9.597 \| 8.327 \| 8.049 \| 42.634 Bromide of sodium \| 1.534 \| 0.414 \| 8.559 \| 2.212 Iodide of sodium \| 0.198 \| 0.066 \| 0.138 \| 0.248 Fluoride of calcium \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Bicarbonate of lithia \| 11.447 \| 4.326 \| 4.761 \| 7.004 Bicarbonate of soda \| 4.288 \| 10.064 \| 10.775 \| 71.232 Bicarbonate of magnesia \| 176.463 \| 75.161 \| 121.757 \| 149.343 Bicarbonate of lime \| 170.646 \| 101.881 \| 143.339 \| 170.392 Bicarbonate of strontia \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| 0.425 Bicarbonate of baryta \| 1.737 \| 0.726 \| 0.928 \| 2.014 Bicarbonate of iron \| 1.128 \| 2.038 \| 0.340 \| 0.979 Sulphate of potassa \| Trace. \| 2.158 \| 0.889 \| 0.318 Phosphate of soda \| 0.006 \| 0.009 \| 0.016 \| Trace. Biborate of soda \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Alumina \| 0.131 \| 0.305 \| Trace. \| Trace. Silica \| 1.260 \| 3.213 \| 0.840 \| 0.665 Organic Matter \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Total per \| \| \| \| U.S. gallon, 231 cu. in.\| 888.403 \| 537.155 \| 700.895 \| 991.546 ---------------------------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Carbonate acid gas \| 375.747 \| 317.452 \| 392.289 \| 454.082 Density \| 1.0115 \| 1.0060 \| 1.096 \| 1.0120 Temperature \| ... \| 50°F. \| 52°F. \| 46°F. -----------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Bases and Acids as \| Star \| High \| Seltzer \| Pavilion\| United actually found in the \| Spring. \| Rock \| Spring. \| Spring. \| States Analysis uncombined \| \| Spring. \| \| \| Spring. -----------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Potassium \| 7.496 \| 5.419 \| 0.949 \| 4.931 \| 4.515 Sodium \| 160.239 \| 163.216 \| 61.003 \| 182.084 \| 57.259 Lithium \| 0.163 \| 0.202 \| 0.093 \| 0.976 \| 0.499 Lime \| 43.024 \| 45.540 \| 31.066 \| 41.540 \| 32.189 Strontia \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| 0.009 Baryta \| 0.056 \| 0.292 \| Trace. \| 0.517 \| 0.537 Magnesia \| 16.992 \| 15.048 \| 11.051 \| 20.895 \| 19.968 Protoiyde of iron \| 0.491 \| 0.598 \| 0.689 \| 1.040 \| 0.289 Alumina \| Trace. \| 1.223 \| 0.374 \| 0.329 \| 0.094 Chlorine \| 246.357 \| 241.017 \| 82.128 \| 282.723 \| 90.201 Bromine \| 0.443 \| 0.568 \| 0.489 \| 0.767 \| 0.656 Iodine \| 0.106 \| 0.072 \| 0.026 \| 0.060 \| 0.039 Fluorine \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Sulphuric acid \| 2.483 \| 0.739 \| 0.256 \| 0.934 \| Trace. Phosphoric acid \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| 0.004 \| 0.008 Boracic acid \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Carbonic acid in \| \| \| \| \| carbonates \| 56.606 \| 62.555 \| 44.984 \| 60.461 \| 50.380 Carbonic acid for \| \| \| \| \| bicarbonates \| 56.606 \| 62.555 \| 44.984 \| 60.461 \| 50.380 Silica \| 1.283 \| 2.260 \| 2.561 \| 3.155 \| 3.184 Organic matter \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. Water in bicarbonates \| 23.160 \| 25.591 \| 18.405 \| 24.736 \| 20.613 Oxygen in KO (SO_{3}). \| 0.496 \| 0.148 \| 0.051 \| 0.187 \| ... Oxygen in LiO \| \| \| \| \| (HO_{2} CO_{2})\| 0.187 \| 0.232 \| 0.105 \| 1.116 \| 0.570 Oxygen in NaO \| \| \| \| \| (HO_{2} CO_{2}) \| 1.206 \| 3.323 \| 2.803 \| 0.358 \| 0.444 Oxygen in 2 NaO \| \| \| \| \| (HO, PO_{5})\| ... \| ... \| ... \| 0.001 \| 0.002 +---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Total per U.S. gallon, \| \| \| \| \| 231 cu. in.\| 617.367 \| 630.500 \| 302.007 \| 687.275 \| 331.837 +---------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Total residue by \| \| \| \| \| evaporation\| 537.600 \| 542.350 \| 238.970 \| 602.080 \| 260.840 -----------------------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Bases and Acids as \| Hathorn \| Crystal \| Congress\| Geyser actually found in the \| Spring. \| Spring. \| Spring. \|spouting Analysis uncombined \| \| \| \| well. (Continued) \| \| \| \| -----------------------+---------+---------+---------+-------- Potassium \| 5.024 \| 5.326 \| 4.611 \| 13.039 Sodium \| 102.058 \| 132.006 \| 162.324 \| 251.031 Lithium \| 1.179 \| 0.445 \| 0.490 \| 0.720 Lime \| 58.989 \| 35.218 \| 49.569 \| 58.901 Strontia \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| 0.211 Baryta \| 1.026 \| 0.429 \| 0.549 \| 1.190 Magnesia \| 48.346 \| 20.592 \| 33.358 \| 40.915 Protoiyde of iron \| 0.456 \| 0.824 \| 0.137 \| 0.396 Alumina \| 0.131 \| 0.305 \| Trace. \| Trace Chlorine \| 214.037 \| 203.292 \| 246.834 \| 352.825 Bromine \| 1.188 \| 0.322 \| 6.645 \| 1.718 Iodine \| 0.166 \| 0.055 \| 0.117 \| 0.208 Fluorine \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace Sulphuric acid \| Trace. \| 0.992 \| 0.409 \| 0.146 Phosphoric acid \| 0.003 \| 0.004 \| 0.008 \| Trace Boracic acid \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace Carbonic acid in \| \| \| \| carbonates \| 04.928 \| 54.984 \| 80.249 \| 112.880 Carbonic acid for \| \| \| \| bicarbonates \| 04.928 \| 54.984 \| 80.249 \| 112.880 Silica \| 1.260 \| 3.213 \| 0.840 \| 0.665 Organic matter \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace. \| Trace Water in bicarbonates \| 42.929 \| 22.496 \| 33.828 \| 46.183 Oxygen in KO (SO_{3}) \| ... \| 0.199 \| 0.082 \| 0.029 Oxygen in LiO \| \| \| \| (HO_{2} CO_{2})\| 1.347 \| 0.509 \| 0.560 \| 0.824 Oxygen in NaO \| \| \| \| (HO_{2} CO_{2}) \| 0.408 \| 0.959 \| 1.024 \| 6.785 Oxygen in 2 NaO \| \| \| \| (HO, PO_{5})\| 0.001 \| ... \| .002 \| ... +---------+---------+---------+-------- Total per U.S. gallon, \| \| \| \| 231 cu. in.\| 688.403 \| 537.155 \| 700.895 \| 991.546 +---------+---------+---------+-------- Total residue by \| \| \| \| evaporation\| 540.550 \| 439.670 \| 588.818 \| 832.483 WATERS OF SARATOGA COUNTY, N.Y. _Table showing the total quantities of mineral matter left by evaporation, and of some of the more important constituents._ -------------------------------------------------------------------------- \| Total solids \| as left by \| evaporation. \| \| Chlorides of \| \| sodium and \| \| potassium. \| \| \| All other solids \| \| \| left by evaporation; \| \| \| carbonates of lime, \| \| \| magnesia, etc. \| \| \| \| Bicarbonate \| \| \| \| of lime (CaO, \| \| \| \| HO, 2CO_{2}). \| \| \| \| \| Bicarbonate of \| \| \| \| \| magnesia (MgO, \| \| \| \| \| HO, 2CO_{2}). \| \| \| \| \| \| Bicarbonate \| \| \| \| \| \| of iron \| \| \| \| \| \| (FeO, HO, SPRING. \| \| \| \| \| \ 2CO_{2}). -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Geyser Spouting \| \| \| \| \| \| well \| 832.48 \| 586.71 \| 245.77 \| 170.39 \| 149.34 \| 0.98 Hathorn spring \| 740.55 \| 519.55 \| 221.00 \| 170.65 \| 176.46 \| 1.13 Hamilton spring \| 611.71 \| 411.00 \| 200.71 \| 144.84 \| 104.80 \| 1.80 Congress spring \| 588.82 \| 408.49 \| 180.33 \| 143.40 \| 121.76 \| 0.34 High Rock spring \| 542.35 \| 399.10 \| 143.25 \| 131.74 \| 54.92 \| 1.48 Washington spring \| 353.23 \| 215.00 \| 138.23 \| 110.23 \| 40.56 \| 2.40 Excelsior spring \| 611.05 \| 473.00 \| 138.05 \| 90.38 \| 72.27 \| 2.84 Pavilion spring \| 602.08 \| 467.56 \| 134.51 \| 120.17 \| 76.73 \| 2.57 Putnam spring \| 354.79 \| 220.50 \| 134.27 \| 110.72 \| 60.01 \| 3.97 Columbian spring \| 353.08 \| 219.00 \| 134.08 \| 104.89 \| 78.05 \| 3.26 Star spring \| 537.60 \| 408.05 \| 129.55 \| 124.46 \| 61.91 \| 1.21 Crystal spring \| 459.67 \| 336.79 \| 122.88 \| 101.88 \| 75.16 \| 2.04 Eureka spring \| 280.16 \| 171.00 \| 119.16 \| 94.02 \| 63.75 \| 3.36 United States \| \| \| \| \| \| spring \| 260.84 \| 150.49 \| 110.35 \| 93.12 \| 72.88 \| 0.71 Empire spring \| 460.32 \| 355.16 \| 105.16 \| 113.54 \| 48.10 \| 1.34 Seltzer spring \| 238.97 \| 135.62 \| 103.35 \| 89.87 \| 40.34 \| 1.70 Red spring \| 155.53 \| 73.50 \| 82.03 \| 79.80 \| 27.84 \| 2.51 Village spring, \| \| \| \| \| \| Ballston \| 153.09 \| 75.00 \| 78.09 \| 65.08 \| 21.59 \| 2.00 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Individuals have their preferences, and opinions may differ in regard to the relative value of the springs, particularly when parties are interested in them. We have no interest in one more than in all, and have brought to our task, we believe, no partiality. The manuscript has been submitted to leading physicians of Saratoga before publication, and is approved by them. The arrangement is alphabetical. CONGRESS SPRING. In Congress Park, opposite Grand Central Hotel. Congress and Empire Spring Company are the proprietors. The New York office is at 94 Chambers street. History. Congress Spring was discovered in 1792, by a party of three gentlemen, who were out upon a hunting excursion. Among the party was John Taylor Gilman, an ex-member of Congress from New Hampshire. Probably in that day, office conferred more honor than at the present time, and as a compliment to so distinguished a person, the spring was then and there christened the Congress. The attention of the hunters was attracted to the spot by the foot-prints of large numbers of deer, the first patrons, it seems, of the sparkling water. Although more especially esteemed by pretty dears of a different character at the present day, the liquid-eyed fawn, who grace Congress Park, are among those who take their daily rations. At the time of discovery, the low ground about the spring was a mere swamp, and the country in the immediate vicinity a wilderness. The mineral water issued in a small stream from an aperture in the side of the rock, which formed the margin of a small brook, and was caught by pressing a glass to the side of the rock. The flow of water was only about one quart per minute. From the date of its discovery to the present time this celebrated spring has been the center of attraction at Saratoga. Its name has become a household word through out the land, and the whole civilized world are its customers. At one time Mr. Putnam had three large potash kettles evaporating the water. The salts thus precipitated were sold in small packages to the amount of several hundred dollars. It was not long, however, before it was discovered that _Congress water_ was not obtained by re-dissolving the salts, as might have been expected if the nature of the water had been considered. About the year 1820, Dr. John Clarke, the proprietor of the first soda fountain opened in this country, purchased the Congress Spring property. By him the water was first bottled for transportation and sale, and to him the village is indebted for much of its beauty and attractiveness. The simple and tasteful Doric colonnade over the Congress, and the pretty Grecian dome over the Columbian were erected by him. Dr. Clarke realized a handsome income from the sale of the water. He died in 1846, but the property continued in the hands of his heirs, under the firm name of Clarke & White, until 1865, when it was purchased by an incorporated company, under the title of "Congress and Empire Spring Company." The capital is $1,000,000, and the company is composed of a large number of individual stockholders. The present proprietors of Congress Spring have contributed not a little to the beauty and attractiveness of this favorite watering place. [Illustration: CONGRESS SPRING.] Properties. When taken before breakfast the water is a very pleasant and effective cathartic. Drank in moderate quantities throughout the day, it is a delightful, wholesome beverage, its effects being alterative and slightly tonic. It is successfully used in affections of the liver and kidneys; and for chronic constipation, dyspepsia and gout it is highly valued. It has been employed in cases of renal calculi with decidedly beneficial results. Crowds gather round the fountain in the early summer morning to win appetite for breakfast and life for the pleasures of the day. Old and young, sick and well, everybody, drinks, for the Congress fountain is as much the morning exchange as the ball-room is the resort of the evening. Prof. G.F. Chandler, the leading chemist in America, says: "The peculiar excellence of the far-famed Congress spring is due to the fact that it contains very much less iron than any other spring, and that it contains, in the most desirable proportions, those substances which produce its agreeable flavor and satisfactory medicinal effects; neither holding them in excess, nor lacking in anything that is desirable in this class of waters." In submitting a new analysis (which appears elsewhere) Prof. Chandler writes,--"A comparison of this with the analysis made by Dr. John H. Steel in 1832, proves that Congress water still retains its original strength, and all the virtues which established its well merited reputation." Higher authority there is none. Bottling the Water. It should be remembered that the water of this spring is sold in _bottles only_. What purports to be Congress water for sale on draught in various places throughout the country is not genuine. The artificial preparations thus imposed upon the public may have a certain resemblance in taste and appearance, but are frequently worse than worthless for medicinal purposes. COLUMBIAN SPRING. In Congress Park, under the Grecian Dome, near the Congress spring, Congress and Empire Spring Co., proprietors. [Illustration: COLUMBIAN SPRING.] History and Peculiarities. This spring was opened in 1806 by Gideon Putnam. The water issues from the natural rock about seven feet below the surface of the ground, and is protected by heavy wooden tubing. It is the most popular spring among the residents of Saratoga. The escaping bubbles of free carbonic acid gas give to the fountain a boiling motion. Large quantities of the gas can easily be collected at the mouth of the spring at any time. Properties. It is a fine chalybeate or iron water, possessing strong tonic properties. It also has a diuretic action and is extensively used for that purpose. The water is recommended to be drank in small quantities frequently during the day, generally _preceded_ by the use of the cathartic waters taken before breakfast. Only from one-half to one glass should be taken at a time. When taken in large quantities or before breakfast its effects might remind one of that great race in northern and central Europe,--the Teutonic (_too_ tonic). A peculiar headache would certainly be experienced. The proper use of this water is found to strengthen the tone of the stomach and to increase the red particles of the blood which, according to Liebeg, perform an important part in respiration. It has been proved by actual experiments that the number of red particles of the blood may be _doubled_ by the use of preparations of iron. Though containing but 3.26 grains of iron in one gallon of water--Prof. Chandler's analysis--it is an evident and remarkable fact that the water thus weakly impregnated has a most perceptible iron taste in every drop. Is it much to be wondered at, then, that a mineral which has so extensive a power of affecting the palate, should possess equally extensive influence over the whole system? Many minerals in a dilute state of solution may pass easily through the absorbents, while in a more concentrated state they may be excluded. Carbonic acid gas, for instance, when diluted is readily inhaled, but when concentrated acts in a peculiar manner upon the wind-pipe so as to prevent its admission. So the happy medicinal effects of these iron waters seem to consist--to some extent--in the minute division of the mineral properties so that they are readily taken into the system. [Illustration: EMPIRE SPRING AND BOTTLING-HOUSE.] THE CRYSTAL SPRING Is under the southern extremity of the new hotel. The proprietors have named it the Crystal Spring from the crystalline appearance of the water, which does not rise to the surface, but is pumped up from a depth of several feet. It was discovered in 1870 by experimental excavation. The characteristic, and to many disagreeable odor of sulphuretted hydrogen, is readily perceived. Sulphur veins, or iron pyrites, are found in all sections of this valley; one of the most provoking problems of the owners of the springs being to keep their fountains from a sulphur taint, the quantity and quality of which is not considered beneficial, while it injures the sale of the bottled water. The Crystal Spring is somewhat alterative in its therapeutic effects. THE ELLIS SPRING Is near the railroad, between the Glacier and Geyser Springs. It has been known for a long time. The water flows through the _slate rock_, and, unlike any other spring at Saratoga, issues in a horizontal direction from the side of the hill. It is a very fine chalybeate, but is not bottled. EMPIRE SPRING, Situated on Spring avenue, at the head of Circular street, and near the base of a high limestone bluff, in the northerly part of the village, a few rods above the Star Spring, and about three-fourths of a mile from the Congress. Owned by the Congress and Empire Spring Company. O.H. Cromwell, Superintendent. History. Mineral water was known to trickle down the bank at this point ever since the land was cleared of its primitive shrubs. It was not till the year 1846 that the fountain was taken in charge. The tubing is eleven feet, and fits closely to the rock. Messrs. Weston and Co., the early proprietors, made extensive improvements in the grounds surrounding, planting shade trees, etc., and during the past year the opening of Spring avenue has rendered the place more attractive. Properties. The water of this spring has a general resemblance to that of the Congress. In the
dress alone was Darlugdacha a little nun. Very early, like all healthy little girls, she insisted on taking an active part in the life she saw around her. There was one beautiful night when Brigid and her companions were gathered in the Church for the Second Nocturn. The lamps were swaying from the ridge-pole, and in the dim light of them the nuns were singing from psalters of their own copying the appointed psalms. All but blind Daria, who needed no psalter and no lamp-light. All at once the blind nun’s quick ear caught a sound at the barred door. Very softly she stole from her place and set it open. There was Darlugdacha, with her white tunic all stained with mud, her rosy face all stained with tears, and her baby hands all hurt with beating at the door. Sightless Daria could _see_ these things, as she stooped and gathered the forlorn little figure into her arms. Presently, she was back in her place again, with Darlugdacha’s head on her shoulder, and Darlugdacha singing her own version of the psalms after her, in the sweetest baby voice. But, long before the Office was ended, Darlugdacha was sound asleep. After that night, Daria would always slip into the Abbess’ hut before she took her own place in the church, and, if the child seemed restless, she would wrap her up warmly in her own mantle and carry her with her. So Darlugdacha early took her part in the “Magnum Opus,” and the earliest words her tongue uttered were the praises of God. The music of the psaltery was her most frequent lullaby. She was welcome everywhere, and in no place whithersoever her little pattering feet led her, did she find her help, however embarrassing to the recipient, disdained. Even when there were guests in the guest-house, and Blathnata, the cook, was very busy in the kitchen, Darlugdacha could enter that domain fearlessly, and, as Blathnata soon found out, could make herself astonishingly useful. The kitchen was a little round hut, which stood by itself behind the other cells. A fire of wood burned in the middle of it, the smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. It was always a joy to Darlugdacha when Blathnata swung the beautiful shining cauldron over the flames, and the cheerful simmering of the meat within filled the little hut with sound. She was very proud of herself when she was, at last, permitted to go near enough to the fire to turn the fish, or joints, that were roasting on spits of pointed hazel rods round the fire, and proudest of all, when Blathnata showed her how to baste them with honey. She was very young, indeed, when she cooked her first dish of Craibhacan, chopping the meat fine, and flavouring it with leeks, and kale, and rowan berries. Nathfraich, the charioteer, won her heart by making for her a tiny kneading trough, and a sieve with a whale-bone bottom, and he secured it for ever by manfully eating to the last crumb the first cake she baked with these utensils. Kinnia said, as she and Blathnata were carrying water one day from the covered well in the dairy to the kitchen, and Darlugdacha was trotting along by their side (her hand on one of the handles of the pail, as if she had the whole weight of it herself), that, for her part, she would rather eat a woman’s ration than a man’s ration of Darlugdacha’s baking. But when she saw Darlugdacha, presently, with one of Blathnata’s cooking-aprons on her (so as to save her white tunic), scrubbing away very busily at Blathnata’s wooden vessels, the little woman looked so sweet, that Kinnia told herself she would eat a whole cake, if it were necessary, to please her. There was never such a busy little girl. When work was slack in the kitchen, there was the dairy to keep her in occupation. Brigid herself loved the dairy, and, mindful of her own young days, gave Darlugdacha the freedom of it early. In the delicious dawn-hour, when the sisters, one and all, went out to the milking, there was never a happier young thing, whether among the lambs, or the birds, or the flowers, than the tiny white maiden who trotted between Brigid and Daria, with each hand in one of theirs, laughing back at Kinnia and Blathnata, who carried the wooden milking vessels between them. She knew each of the cows by name, and she would call them out in her clear voice the moment she passed out of the door of the Lios, and came in sight of the “badhun” (bawn, _lit._ cow-fort), into which the cattle were driven each night for safety. And when the gate of the badhun was reached, there they were waiting for her—Bainidhe and Breacaidhe, and Sgead and Riabhac, and all the others, lowing in answer. And the sound of their bells put the birds on the tops of the apple-trees of the Lios, to shame. It happened, however, one morning, that when Darlugdacha got to the gate of the badhun, she found among the waiting, lowing herd, no Bainidhe—the little white cow with the red ears, which was her special pet. It seemed that two lepers had come to Brigid the day before, and the sight of their miserable condition so prevailed with the compassionate Abbess that she promised to give them the best cow in her byre, leaving the choice to them. Of course, it naturally fell on Bainidhe. Darlugdacha’s soft little heart was torn by two emotions when she heard the explanation of Bainidhe’s absence. She was dreadfully sorry, to be sure, for the poor lepers, whom she had learned to pray for night and morning. But, I fear me, she was far more sorry for Bainidhe, driven away from her nice, juicy pasturage, and the fragrant breath, and the lowing of her companions, and the warm shelter of the badhun—and the stroking of a little girl’s soft hand. It was the turn of Brigid herself, that day, to drive the cows, after milking, from the badhun, and herd them in the Curragh. Usually, Darlugdacha would be out of herself with delight when it was proposed, as it was now, that she should go with her. But to-day it was clear that the delights of a day with the dear mother, all to herself, in the glorious plain, were overshadowed by the loss of Bainidhe. So Brigid told Kinnia to take Darlugdacha back with her to the dairy, and let her help to skim the cream, and stand as near as ever she liked to the cuinneog (churn), when the loinid (churn-dash) was beating the white milk-waves into flying froth—which, on ordinary occasions, was not considered a suitable place for a little girl, who had a white tunic to keep clean. It took her some time before she was her cheerful little self again. Even the pat of butter Kinnia gave her to stamp failed to bring her consolation. But a good drenching in buttermilk froth helped her wonderfully; and when Kinnia (who, I am afraid, was not guiltless in the matter of that drenching) had wiped the small, rosy face dry again, she felt inclined to give credence to Kinnia’s expressed faith that she would see Bainidhe again before very long. A greater number of poor came that day to the gate than usual. Darlugdacha was kept very busy helping Kinnia to attend to their wants. Here a poor woman wanted milk for her sick son; there a crippled girl had come for butter; for a poor man with a large family there was a great loaf of bread, with cheese and bacon, and a measure of milk. Now, as Darlugdacha flew from the kitchen to the dairy, and thence to the gate, she seemed to have in her ears all the time the lowing of Bainidhe. At last, towards evening, when all the other poor had departed, there came a great knocking with the “bas-chrannidhe” at the door; and when Kinnia and Darlugdacha went to open it, what should they find before them but the two lepers of the day before—and Bainidhe. They had not been able to drive Bainidhe a single step beyond a certain point in the plain, well within sight of the Oak Tree. And so they had come back to ask Brigid to help them again. Happy Darlugdacha, her small arms round Bainidhe’s white neck, her small hand alternately stroking Bainidhe’s nose, or pulling her red ear, was welcoming her restored darling, while Bainidhe was lowing with contentment, and trying to tell how clever she had been, and Kinnia was away with Blathnata in the kitchen, preparing a comfortable meal for the two poor lepers. At that moment the tinkling of cow-bells was heard, and Brigid came in sight, driving her cattle across the plain. The lepers could not await her coming. They were off to meet her like two flashes of lightning. And presently, over the lowing of the cattle and the tinkling of the cow-bells, and the joyous barking of the “cubuachaill” (_i.e._, “dog-cowherd,” sheep-dog), Darlugdacha could hear their hoarse voices telling Brigid their story. Then, quite suddenly, the tinkling of a cow-bell was heard from another direction, and a man was seen coming from the North driving a cow before him. Darlugdacha left off stroking Bainidhe for a moment, and waited to see what would happen. Brigid and the lepers and _her_ cows came up with the stranger and _his_ cow just at the Lios gate. “My Master has sent this cow to thee as a gift,” said the man, and put an end of the halter that was round the cow’s neck in Brigid’s hand. With that he was off again. Brigid looked at the cow which she held haltered, and then at the one Darlugdacha was stroking. And Darlugdacha looked at the new cow, and then at Bainidhe, and then back again. _The two cows were exactly alike._ “Methinks _my_ Master has sent this cow to you, poor men,” said Brigid, “instead of the one that would not go with you.” She put the halter into the hands of the two lepers; and when Kinnia and Blathnata had given them food, they drove off their new cow contentedly. Since they did not come back for a long long time, I feel sure that the second cow must have gone with them obediently. As for Bainidhe, she was driven with her other companions into the badhun, and Darlugdacha stood very close to her, while Brigid herself milked her. In those days, when the ideal of education was the direct preparation of the child for the duties which his future station in life was likely to lay on him, the law itself took cognisance of the necessity of training girls in the arts of household management. “The use of the quern, and the kneading trough, and the use of the sieve are to be taught to their daughters” says the _Senchus Mór_ to Foster Parents in one place; and, again, to those who foster the children of Chieftains, “sewing, and cutting-out, and embroidery are to be taught to their daughters.” You may be sure then that Darlugdacha (whom Brigid held in fosterage for the High King of Heaven Himself) was early trained in the use of the spindle, and the distaff, and the needle. In the quiet evenings of the tender Irish summer-time, when the nuns sat on the lawn under the shadow of the great oak, and Brigid, her poet’s soul stirred to the depths by the beauty of the world around her, was thinking, with pity, of Daria’s blindness, a little girl could be seen making a very brave attempt to imitate whatever she saw Kinnia, and Daria, and Blathnata, and Brigid herself do. It was Daria’s task to comb the wool. She drew it out in handfuls from the bag at her feet, and combed it with a pair of “cards” until it was fit for spinning. Then she turned it over to Blathnata, who wound it first loosely on the cuigeal (distaff), and then, dexterously, spun it on to the spindle. Kinnia was kept busy with her bronze needle and ball of wool, fashioning garments for the sisters themselves, or for the many poor who depended on them. And, while Brigid’s clever artist-fingers are copying on some beautiful ecclesiastical garment, with many coloured, precious threads, the design stamped on the leather pattern she holds before her, let us, whose fashionable pedagogy lays so much stress on “Object Lessons,” think how fortunate Darlugdacha is. There is not a process, from the sowing of the flax-seed to the making up of the linen altar-cloth, that she has not witnessed with her own eyes. She has been able to follow, step by step, the evolution of the woollen garment which Kinnia is fashioning—from the shearing of the sheep onward. In the winter evenings the sisters sat in the loom-house, and wove the flaxen and woollen yarn they had prepared during the summer into linen and cloth. Darlugdacha loved to sit by, in the light of the rush candles, and watch the shuttle being flung back and forth. But something more precious was being woven during these hours than the web on the loom; and many a wonderful old story, many a gracious thought, many a poem, and many a prayer, were being patterned into the weaving of it. The old Irish, a people courteous and sociable, held no one cultured who could not “talk” well. Story-telling, as a great test of education and good breeding, was the accomplishment they valued most. Little Darlugdacha, who was set aside to be the bride of the King of Kings, was in the thought of those who fostered her to get the culture of a Princess. Can you picture her, a little white girl, sitting very close to her dear mother, telling, when the turn for a tale comes to her, some story she has been taught concerning the ancient days and ways in Erinn? Very sweetly and gravely the clear, treble voice carries the tale. Do you notice how pleasant is its “timbre,” how very expressive its inflections, how charming and musical its modulations? There is no instrument from which better effects can be obtained than the human “speaking” voice; and do they not do well, in this ancient Ireland, to which we have slipped back in search of our Darlugdacha, to devote great care to its cultivation? It is true they are fortunate in having in this language they speak, rich in sounds, full of delicately-shaded endings, a marvellous exerciser. And have we nothing to learn from Darlugdacha’s teachers? We have still other things to learn from Darlugdacha’s teachers. Those story-telling lessons held many lessons in one. In a highly inflected language, like Old Irish, to learn to tell a continuous tale was to undergo, among other things, a thorough drill in Grammar. The material of the tale was a storehouse of instruction in History and Geography. The Memory-training, which we try to combine with an awakening of the aesthetic faculties when we prescribe the memorising of poetry for our youngsters, was admirably acquired by the same means. As for “Education,” there was Character-training in those old tales that set the heart beating for noble deeds, nobly done. Character-training, too, in the reasoned patriotism they taught by showing why Ireland was a country to be loved, and how to love her. Courtesy and Dignity ever hovered before the apprentice story-teller as the ideal to be striven for. Courtesy demanded the best of him, that it might be offered to his neighbour for his neighbour’s pleasure. Dignity and Self-respect demanded the best of him, that it might be worthy of himself. You must not go away with the idea, however, that Darlugdacha’s “Instruction” was all gained by learning to re-tell the old tales. She had her reading and writing lessons, too. I like to think that the same method was adopted with her to make her learn her letters, as was found efficacious with Saint Columbkille. Perhaps Blathnata made a cake for her—a nice cake with plenty of honey in it—and traced the alphabet on the top of it. As Darlugdacha learned to know the letters, she could make her very own of them, you see, by eating them. It may have required more than one cake to make the process of instruction complete. No matter how many were needed, I am sure Blathnata did not spare them. At last, Darlugdacha had got beyond her alphabet cakes, and was all afire to get helping the sisters to copy the psalter. Cilldara was a small place in those days, and had no “Teach Screptra.”[5] But the books hung in their leathern satchels from hooks along the walls of the Erdam (or Sacristy) that opened off the little Church. Hither came the nuns in turn to help to make the new copies, of which the Abbess had constant need to bestow in alms on poor churches. Two or three other virgins had joined the community since Darlugdacha’s coming; and one of them, the daughter of a scribe, was particularly skilful at the work. Darlugdacha was fascinated by it. She would stand for hours at a time watching the clever pen go delicately over the vellum—and longing for the day when she, too, would sit at a desk with a quill in her right hand, and a knife in her left to keep it pointed, with her conical ink-cup fastened to her chair-arm—a fully-equipped scribe. In the meantime, she was forced to content herself with her fan-shaped, waxed tablets, on which she practised copying with a metal “style.” When the wax surface was used up, she rubbed it smooth, and began over again. Thus the little hands grew sure and steady—and, at last, one day, on an old piece of vellum, they tried their skill with the pen. Down across the ages, from those exquisite days, fresh and beautiful as the summer dawn, there has come to us a poem of Brigid’s. It sets us in the midst of the preparations for a great Church Festival, where the Guest of Honour was to be One Who, indeed, was never absent from the midst of the white band of women whom the Oak Tree sheltered. For, was not every act of theirs a prayer? And were they not gathered together in His name? And hath He not made a promise? Nevertheless, it is fitting that, at Easter time His Resurrection be honoured, and the poor and the afflicted, His chosen representatives, be made joyful. So as the paschal moon gets nearer and nearer to its white perfecting in the East, the little hive beneath the Oak Tree grows busier. There is ale to be brewed for the faithful who shall attend the Celebration of the Passion in the neighbouring churches. There is corn to be ground in the querns, to be ready for baking into paschal cakes, or dealt out to the needy. There are candles for the altar to be made of virgin wax from the bee-hives in the nuns’ scented garden. There is store of meat to be salted and cooked for the banqueting table, spread for the poor. In the little wooden Church, blind Daria, the sacristan, is laying out her choicest vestments, taking from their places of safety the precious vessels. The altar linen, snowy from the brook, stands ready. Around His Throne are flowers and fragrant herbs. And little Darlugdacha is flitting, like a white bird, in the midst of it all, singing Brigid’s hymn—finding, in all this preparation, its mystic significance, learning the reading of the Riddle of Life:— I should like a great lake of ale For the King of the Kings; I should like the family of Heaven To be drinking it through time eternal. I should like the viands Of belief and pure piety; I should like flails Of penance at my house. I should like the men of Heaven In my own house. I should like kieves Of peace to be at their disposal. I should like vessels Of charity for distribution; I should like caves Of mercy for their company. I should like cheerfulness To be in their drinking; I should like Jesus Here to be among them. I should like the three Marys of illustrious renown; I should like the people Of Heaven, there from all parts. I should like that I should be A rent-payer to the Lord; That should I suffer distress, He would bestow upon me a good blessing. SAINT ELIZABETH A Little German Schoolgirl of the Middle Ages PART I.—“A STAR IN THE EAST.” Has not Herr Walther,[6] good-humouredly turning the laugh against himself, advised all those who suffer from earache to stay away from the Court of Thuringia? For my part I can never read his “Spruch”:—“Swer in den ôren siech von ungesûhte sî,” without feeling a most realistic discomfort at the din, made even in the poetry (and at 700 years’ distance!) by the alternating trains of “coming and parting guests,” for whom Landgraf Hermann’s undiscriminating hospitality had equal “welcome and speeding”; and without endorsing Herr Wolfram’s[7] regret that no Kaye, the boorish Seneschal of King Arthur’s Court, held office in the Wartburg, to keep the “good and bad” in their respective places. How intolerable the ceaseless din could be, even to one who was born in the midst of it, a little boy was dolorously feeling on a certain summer’s evening of the year 1211. The noise seemed worse than usual from the impression he had (which nobody took the slightest trouble, alas! to remove), that he was hopelessly “out of it.” When, braving the dragon which kept terrible guard over King Ortnit, murdered in his sleep (a warning, in high relief over the tower gate, to watchmen too fond of sleep), he had climbed the rough spiral staircase to the keep, he had found no welcome from the warder, intent on scanning the horizon for an eagerly expected messenger. Shouts, that sounded not all too sober, from the House of the Muleteers, warned him off _their_ premises. As for the kitchen—with the roaring of fires, and the creaking of spits, and the cursing of cooks and scullions, and the wailing of imprisoned fowl, awaiting execution under the huge table—that was Inferno! As the little boy passed the great stone steps that led to the entrance of the Palas, he put his hands in his ears; for the door of the Saal stood open, and amidst the gambols of gleemen, and the notes of every musical instrument known to the period—flageolet, guitar, organistrum, bagpipe, psaltery, tabor, lute, sackbut, rebeck and gigue—Landgraf Hermann was reminding guests (who needed small reminder) that, if ever there was an excuse for emptying flagons, it was to-day, when the little Hungarian Princess, the betrothed of his son and heir, Hermann, was due to arrive at her German home. In the Armourers’ House our little boy had been frankly snubbed; and big brother, Hermann, whom he found in it (made much of as the hero of the day), being measured, if you please, for a suit of armour (which he supposed he would need _very_ soon now), had given him the brutal advice to go back to Agnes, and Heinrich, and Conrad in the nursery—and not be forcing his company on his elders. And then, suddenly, things had changed. As he turned out of the Armourers’ smithy, with Hermann’s mocking laugh in his ears, he heard his own name called once or twice. His mother had sent one of her women in search of him, and he was to come at once to the women’s apartments. It certainly was a comfort to be wanted somewhere, and young Ludwig made about two steps of the staircase which led to the long open gallery on the side of the great courtyard. He lingered a little, though, on the gallery, for the sense of beauty and comfort which one had to starve somewhat in mediæval castles found satisfaction here. Sweet-scented flowers grew in boxes in the spaces between the charming double columns, which even to-day are the Wartburg’s chief architectural beauty. In gilded cages beneath the open arches were the little song-birds his mother loved. On the inside wall were painted tender domestic scenes from the Bible. He had a dim but very pleasant consciousness, as he passed them by, that the figures were smiling out on him the welcome of old friends. And as he paused for a moment at the door of his mother’s room, and looked back along the gallery, he noticed that the last rays of the sun were filling it, and the birds were singing, and some of the flowers, that had gone to sleep, had wakened up again. But all this did not prepare him for what he found when he pushed open the door, and stood on the threshold of the great vaulted chamber, where his mother awaited him. A feast of colour and light! Instead of the golden evening rays, here was the soft radiance of hundreds of waxen tapers. The hinged wooden shutters had been let down over the unglazed window spaces, and night was summoned hither before her time. From the quartered arches of the painted roof hung chandeliers of enamelled bronze, of the admirable workmanship of the period, and each of them was laden with lights. In long rows between the columns on which the roof rested stood tall candle-sticks with great “king-candles” burning in them. On the hearth flamed a fire of scented wood, and the light of candles and leaping fire made wonderful play with the glowing colours of the painted ceilings, and the splendid tapestry on the walls. “Come hither, fair son.” Young Ludwig came over the flower-strewn floor, between columns of coloured marble and “king-candles,” his handsome, fair head held high. In his page’s dress of crimson, he fitted in well with the rest of the scene. So did his mother, standing in the midst of her maidens, stately and beautiful in her mantle, with its shimmering embroideries, its long train, and breast fastening of regal pearls. She held out a little white hand to him, and he kissed it, kneeling on one knee. Then, with a sudden impulse, as if the mother claimed her rights as well as the princess, she stooped down to him, moved aside her wimple, and laid his firm young cheek against her own. She left her hand in his, while he rose from his knees, and led him with it to the top of the chamber. “Look, fair son, and tell me what you see.” For a moment Ludwig was so astonished at what he saw that he could not speak. Then he turned to his mother with a question: “Who worked the tapestry? And how do _I_ come to be standing in the Landgraf’s robes, high on the Wartburg, with the valley and the town of Eisenach far beneath me, and a great star hanging low from the sky above my head?” His mother answered one part of his question: “The ‘Wise Nun’ in thy Father’s Convent of Eisenach has wrought it,” she said, and then stopped suddenly, and led him to the lateral wall. “This, too, hath the wise nun wrought?” he asked in growing astonishment. For the tapestry on this wall depicted a scene which had occurred in the Wartburg four years previously, with a fidelity which seemed impossible to anyone but an eye-witness. It was the celebrated “War of the Poets” on the Wartburg—the “Wartburgkrieg”—the memory of which is as fresh to-day as when young Ludwig looked on the “Wise Nun’s” tapestry, and saw it pictured in glowing colours and wealth of detail on the canvas. There on the “Minstrels’ Gallery” were the seats of Duke Hermann and Duchess Sophia. The Landgräfin had risen from hers, and with the folds of her mantle was covering a terror-stricken suppliant. In the Minstrel’s Hall, a step or two beneath the Gallery, were the other contestants. Ludwig recognises each of the angry faces that are turned towards the fugitive—Wolfram von Eschenbach, Walther von der Vogelweide, Heinrich von Zweten, and Heinrich Schreiber. A man, with the instruments of the executioner in his hand to label him for the spectator, is starting forward, but the quick movement is arrested by someone he sees in the opening door—a white-haired, venerable man, with a long beard. “It is Klingsohr, the Wise Man from Hungary, who has come just in time to save the life of Heinrich von Ofterdingen,” says Ludwig, while his mother nodded confirmation. Young Ludwig passed on. Here was the white-haired man again—in a garden this time before one of the little tables which have been in German inn-gardens since first such things were, and will be, until they are no more. He has risen from the table and is scanning the skies—and, behold! very low in them is hanging the star which shines about Ludwig’s own head in the piece of tapestry opposite. From the other tables, men in the knightly garb of peace, have risen likewise, neglecting their chess, and draughts, and dice, and drinking flagons, to follow the direction of the old man’s pointing arm. On the left wall another many-figured scene. A king and queen on their thrones in the midst of a full and splendid court. Between them, the wonderful star is poised; and at their feet are kneeling ambassadors, whom Ludwig recognises as those sent from his father’s court, to ask the hand of the little Hungarian Princess (whose birth had been announced to him by Klingsohr) for his eldest son, Hermann. “How wonderful it is,” said Ludwig, “but why did the ‘Wise Nun,’ so exact in all else, make the mistake of clothing me in the Landgraf’s robes, instead of Hermann?” Nobody answered, for a peal from the Berchfrid,[8] that rang through every corner of the huge enclosure on the Wartburg, made its way into the women’s apartments, and told those who waited there that they need wait no more. The serving women were busy with their lady’s mantle, and presently the hum of a merry little song, and the ring of a martial (and not quite steady) step was heard along the gallery, and Duke Hermann, somewhat flushed from his mighty potations, but excellently-humoured, came into the “kemenate.” “Art ready to meet thy daughter-in-law, Frau Landgräfin?” he said, jocularly. “If so, there is no time to be lost. What, Ludwig, still at thy mother’s girdle? It fears me much that we shall never make a sturdy drinker and fighter of thee, to keep thy father in countenance.” Over Duchess Sophia’s fine face a shadow fell. She loved this passionate Lord of hers, with all his faults and all his weaknesses. But it was the dearest prayer of her soul to preserve her sons from following the path he trod. As much as lay in her power, she strove to keep them away from the motley company which held revel in the hall of the main building. But Hermann had speedily emancipated himself. “The lust of the eyes, the delight of the flesh, and the pride of life,” had put their fascination on him as soon as he had got clear of the women’s apartments. Ludwig was different. A certain asceticism, answering her own, had early revealed itself in his character. A strength of purpose, a force of self-restraint, a natural attitude of noble aloofness from all that seemed unworthy, made her build high hopes on Ludwig. And as for Hermann, who knew what blessings might be brought him by this child-bride from Hungary, whose birth had been accompanied by such wonders, who had already won the gladness of peace for her own land? Joyfully, then, she went forth to meet her. Outside on the gallery torches burned. The great courtyard was full of light and movement, the stamping of horses, the shouting of orders, snatches of laughter and song. She heard a whisper from Ludwig: “May I be your escort, Lady Mother?” and answered with a pressure of the hand. A groom brought her horse, and Ludwig lifted her from the mounting-stone at the bottom of the staircase, on to the bench-like seat, which, for the ladies of the thirteenth century, took the place of a saddle. Her husband and Hermann were already mounted; Ludwig, as his mother’s chosen squire, was at her horse’s head. So they rode, with a long train of knights, and ladies, and squires, and pages, behind them, out of the great court into the Vorburg, and then through the triple gates of the entrance tower, out over the lowered drawbridge, and so to the narrow and dangerous path which led to the plain below. So narrow was the path that they could but ride in single file with a torch-bearer beside each rider to light the way for them. In the depths below them, Eisenach lay, a great blazing jewel in the dark valley. All sorts of summer-night scents came to them from the sloping woods on either side. There was no darkness in the sky, only a deep blue, cut by exquisite star-forms. In the west was a thin curve of a very young moon. Landgraf Hermann began to hum a “Lied” of Walther’s, the “Praise of Summer”—“Swie wol der heide ir manicvaltiu varwe stât,” “How well the painted heath becomes its wealth of summer bloom”—and presently a boy’s soprano took it up, and to wood, and heath, and meadow were being revealed their own sweet loveliness, under the tender light of a poet’s longing, wistful yet passionless, like that of the thin young moon herself! So those rode down from the Wartburg, who went forth from it to meet the King’s Daughter. The gates of Eisenach opened to their trumpeter, and through the torch-lit streets they rode to the inn beside Saint George’s Gate, where Michael Hellgreff had had Klingsohr to guest, what time he saw the Star hang low in the mystic East. On their way, they passed groups of burghers and their dames, all in their Sunday best, sitting on benches under the overhanging stories of their gabled, wooden houses, who left off gossiping to cheer their Sovereigns and the handsome young bridegroom. Under the l
from MSS. in the Archivo general de Indias, Sevilla. _Translations_: Part of the first document is translated by Consuelo A. Davidson; the rest of this, and the remaining documents in this group, by James A. Robertson. The Second Embassy to Japan [_Statement by Faranda_] My lord the emperor Conbacondo [1] sends me as his ambassador to your Excellency, as the representative of King Philippe, to ask that we maintain hereafter the peaceful relations required by the close bond of true friendship and fraternity, for which reason I, in the name of my lord the emperor Conbacondo and as his ambassador, ask his Majesty King Philippe and your Excellency to accept and receive that friendship, as my lord the emperor desires. The letter brought by Gaspar, my vassal, was in order to ascertain whether your Excellency and the other Spaniards were friends or foes, and not, as had been imagined or understood here, that you should become vassals of my lord the emperor, and render him obedience and submission. Having learned the truth, my lord the emperor sent this embassy, ordering me to put on the garment which I am wearing, which means friendship and fraternity; for if we had come for war, as was thought, my garments would have been different, and I would have come in a different manner. It would have greatly pleased me if it had been possible for father Fray Juan Cobos to come, to present the sword which, as a token of friendship and true brotherhood was given to him to be presented to your Excellency; and to describe the kind reception accorded to him there and the love shown to him, so that I might have been more cordially received by your Excellency. Your Excellency, not being acquainted with the many things said in this city concerning my visit, is very kind to receive me in this manner, not knowing even who I am, which could have been explained by father Fray Juan Cobos if he had come. Will your Excellency be pleased to order that a reply be given to me as soon as possible, that I may go away and take the other Xaponese who are here, because it is time to do so, and because the Xaponese who have come heretofore from Xapon are not of the higher classes, but are very low. Your Excellency should decide whether you do not wish them to go, as people of this sort are a shame to the kingdom of Xapon; and, in case provisions or anything else are required from my country, I will send them with merchants duly registered. For that purpose I ask your Excellency to give me a seal, and I will leave here one of mine, so that all our procedures may be uniform and harmonious; for it would not be right to have the people from the kingdom of Xapon come here to rob the land and occasion scandals, thus giving a bad name to our country, and especially in a country with which we have established close friendship and with whom we are at peace. I also ask that when the emperor needs the Spaniards in the wars which he may wage, your Excellency will bind yourself to send him reënforcements of men, and he will do the same at any time when your Excellency shall see fit to send to his kingdom of Xapon for soldiers. Everything that I have asked from your Excellency herein is in the name of my lord the emperor. Your Excellency has doubted my authority, because I did not present letters from my lord the emperor. They are in the possession of father Fray Juan Cobos and give me ample authority to negotiate with your Excellency in regard to everything required to establish peace and amity. I will wait until I reach my emperor's presence and I will then send the agreements written by his own hands, and signed with my name, as a proof of my veracity. [_Authentication_] We, the undersigned religious, state that the ambassador did sign this memorial; and I, Fray Gonzalo Garcia, certify that everything contained herein was dictated to me to be written for your Excellency in the Spanish language by his order; and I as interpreter had it written by one of the religious who here sign our names. Dated in this city of Manila, the twenty-seventh of April, one thousand five hundred and ninety-three. _Fray Gonçalo Garcia_ _Fray Geronimo Vazquez_ _Fray Andres del Spiritu Santo_ [_Statement by Faranda_] Last year, one thousand five hundred and ninety-two, Conbacondon, the emperor of the realm of Xapon, commanded me to come to these islands to negotiate for peace and amity with your Excellency and the Spaniards residing here, your Excellency having agreed to it as the representative here of his Majesty King Don Philipe. In order to carry out my emperor's orders I went as far as the province of Sanchuma, [2] to a seaport, whence I was to sail; but while making preparations for my departure, I was attacked by sickness. Then, in order not to lose the opportunity or to disobey said orders on account of my illness, I decided to send in my place my vassal Gaspar, whom I greatly esteem, believing that he would execute the commission well, as he is a man experienced in all matters pertaining to these Islands, having been in them before; and in consequence I sent him, giving him the letter from the emperor my lord. He came and delivered it; but, as there was no interpreter, it was not understood, and he was discredited because of the little authority he had, as he was not an ambassador. For that reason your Excellency decided to send father Fray Juan Cobos and Captain Lope de Llano, who were to visit the kingdom of Xapon and ascertain the truth concerning the embassy which my said subject brought. When Fray Juan Cobos arrived in Satisma he wrote two letters, one to the emperor, my lord, and another to me as the person to whom the embassy sent to these islands had been entrusted. The said two letters were tied together, and I received them in the town of Mengoya, where the court of my lord the emperor is established. [3] For the sake of courtesy, I did not separate mine, but took both and delivered them to the emperor my lord, who read his and gave me mine--ordering a captain and myself, one by land and the other by sea, to go to meet father Fray Juan Cobos. We departed at once, I going by sea; and I met him at Geto, a place between Firando and Mangasatte, [4] where I received him with great pleasure, and brought him to the court where my lord the emperor then was. Upon being notified of his arrival, the emperor ordered one of his nobles to give him hospitality in his own home, so that Father Juan Cobos could rest there until a house could be adorned with gold, to shelter him with more pomp, because he was the envoy of so great a governor and because he is a father, and known to be a learned man, and that all his royal city might see how grand a reception was accorded to him. Twenty-five days afterward, when everything was ready to receive him, I sent six hundred of the principal men, nobles and gentry, to convey him to the emperor's presence, sending a beautifully decorated litter, on which the father was carried on their shoulders. Everyone was amazed to see such a reception, the like of which had never before been accorded to any other ambassador, although many had come to my lord the emperor, some to offer obedience, others to negotiate peace treaties. It was because the emperor knew that the Spaniards are a warlike nation, valiant and honored above all other people, that he gave them such a reception; and so it was known over all the court. My lord the emperor was inside the fortress, and when father Fray Juan Cobos reached the palace he was bidden to enter the audience-chamber where the emperor was waiting for him, and where he received him with the greatest honor and show of affection ever shown to any man, seating him next to himself. Father Fray Juan Cobos presented him with the letter, which upon being read, showed how doubts had arisen regarding the embassy sent by the emperor the year before. My lord the emperor called me, and asked me why I had not fulfilled his orders--to which I replied that I had gone to do so, but that, while at the seaport, I had been taken sick; and in order not to miss sending his embassy, I had entrusted it to one of my vassals, a Christian. Then my lord the emperor ordered me to go with father Fray Juan Cobos to visit your Excellency in his name, and to deliver my letters and try to establish lasting relations of friendship and amity; and finally sent me away, after having given me full instructions as to what I was to say and do. To father Fray Juan Cobos my lord the emperor gave a sword of great worth and value, as a token of friendship, for your Excellency; and a letter, wherein it was written that we were to be friends and brothers. Father Fray Juan Cobos and I departed for the port, but on arriving there he would not embark on my vessel. So we set sail, he on his vessel and I on mine. Upon leaving I told father Fray Juan Cobos that it would be better to wait for the tide, and until the moon came out; but he answered: "Your people do not know or understand the sea." I am a pilot, and, seeing that the high tide was against us, I waited until the moon arose; but the father would not wait, and so left, and I have never since seen him. The advice I gave him before leaving was so that the emperor my lord might not ask me why I had not advised him, and so that the father himself might not have reason to complain against me. I gave him two of my kinsmen to accompany him, since he would not sail on my vessel. Before he left, I asked the father to give me a letter for your Excellency, because the ocean was not safe; and I asked also for some one who would come with me to these islands, and who could tell who I was, and state the reasons why I came. He gave me Antonio, a Christian Sangley. The said Antonio asked the father for a letter to your Excellency, and he gave it to him; and so we separated, in the manner above described. I, Faranda Quiemon, ambassador of the emperor of the realms of Xapon, state that the people of the said realms are heathen, but have already begun to accept the gospel law, and wish to become Christians; and if this desire and belief has not spread more, it is because of the lack of ministers and priests. I know that my emperor desires me to bring back some fathers, provided they are of the order of St. Francis, because this is an order and habit new to him; and our Lord Jesus Christ and he will be well pleased that I should do them this service. If your Excellency will order this to be done, you will confer a favor upon the said emperor and myself. I beg your Excellency to favor me by commanding that ten fathers of the above-mentioned Franciscan order be sent to accompany me from this city to Xapon for the said object--the said ten fathers to be Fray Pedro Baptista, Fray Vicente Vermeo, Fray Blas de la Madre de Dios, Fray Juan Pobre, Fray Diego Portero, Father Gonzalez, Fray Francisco Parilla, Fray Joseph, Fray Francisco Ribero, and Fray Andres (an unsettled priest). Besides the fact that we shall all take as a favor the service done our lord, I promise in the name of the emperor and on his royal word that they shall be well received and well treated, and that no harm shall be done them; and if they become unwilling to stay, and are disinclined to do the work for which they have been taken thither, I promise to send them back to this city as they came. [_Letters from Fray Juan Cobos_] The bearer of this is Faranda Quiemo, a Xaponese, who goes in a new vessel, which has some red pictures painted on the poop. She is a staunch ship, carrying one hundred and twenty men, Chinese and Xaponese. It carries as a signal a red pennant at the stern. Given at Cuxi, a port of Xapon, on October 29, 1592. _Fray Juan Cobos_ [_Addressed_: "To Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, governor and captain-general of the Filipinas Islands, at Manila."] Because of the uncertainty of the ocean, I send this note by another vessel which sails together with ours from this port, so that in case it reaches your Excellency before us you will not be alarmed on our account. Our trip has been very prosperous, and, should the Lord preserve our health, we shall, as soon as we find ourselves in Manila, report to your Excellency how well we were received by the emperor and how well attended, thus honoring our lord the king, your Excellency, and our nation. Nothing more at present, as I am writing these lines only in case our ship should prove less speedy. From Xapon, province of China, [5] port of Cuxi, November 4. Captain Lope Llanos kisses your Excellency's hands; he is very ill with quartan ague. _Fray Juan Cobos_ [_Addressed_: "To Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, knight of the Order of Santiago, governor and captain-general of the Felipinas Islands."] The bearer is Antonio Lopez, a Chinese, who sails on the vessel of the Japanese Faranda as a token of peace, and to protect the vessel, so that no harm may be done to it. _Fray Juan Cobo_ May Jesus be always with your Excellency. It was found necessary that Antonio Lopez, the Chinese, depart in the vessel of Faranda Quiemo, who is the master of the Faranda who carries these letters and was the source of all these messages. Although I leave the port in Xapon before him, the fortunes of the ocean are various, and he may arrive there first. Glory be to God that our voyage has been very prosperous, as your Excellency will learn. As this letter is only intended as a safe-conduct for its bearers (for which we are hostages), and as a permit to Antonio Lopez, I say nothing more except that I recommend your Excellency, in case he shall arrive before I do, to give them a kind reception, because we were well received by the emperor. It is worth while for your Excellency to send here for copper and hemp, on the king's account, as I shall report to you at my arrival. Captain Lope de Llanos kisses your Lordship's hands; he is very ill with quartan ague. He is not writing, because this letter is intended only for the purpose above mentioned. From the realm of Xapon, province of Chaxuma, at the port of Cuxi, November 4, 1592. _Fray Juan Cobo_ Addressed to Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, knight of the order of Santiago, and governor and captain-general of the Filipinas Islands. _Decree_ In the city of Manila, on the twenty-fourth day of the month of May, one thousand five hundred and ninety-three, I, Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, knight of the Order of Santiago, and captain-general of these islands, declare in the name of the king, our lord, that whereas last year some letters and an ambassador claiming to come from the king of Xapon were received here, and, moved by suspicion and fearing war, I sent the father Fray Juan Cobos with letters for the emperor; and whereas it is over a year since the said father left here, and, notwithstanding I have received letters from him meanwhile, making known his safe arrival and the prompt execution of his mission, I am anxious because he does not return; three Xaponese vessels having arrived, and in one of them a man by the name of Faranda, a Xaponese who claims to be the ambassador; and as I wish to be informed what sort of a man this Faranda is, and to learn whether Father Cobos arrived there and how he was received and sent away, and the purpose that Faranda has in coming, and what are the intentions and objects of the said emperor, and whatever else it is expedient to ask in order to disperse and clear away the prevalent uncertainties, and know whether we are to have safety and peace with that king: I hereby order that the following investigation be made, the proceedings of which shall be attached to the original letters sent by father Fray Juan Cobo and to the memorial submitted by Faranda; and I sign it with my name. _Gomez Perez Dasmariñas_ Before me: _Juan de Cuellar_ [_Testimony_] In [6] the city of Manila, on the twenty-fourth day of the month of May, one thousand five hundred and ninety-three, the said governor and captain-general, Gomez Perez Das Marinas, summoned Captain Joan de Solis to his presence, in order to make the above-mentioned investigation. He took the oath before God and on the sign of the cross, in due form, and promised to answer truthfully the questions asked him. The tenor of the questions having been read to him, he said that, as one who had just come from the kingdoms of Xapon, and reached this port and bay but yesterday, and who was in Xapon when father Fray Joan Cobos arrived there--where this witness was building a ship (the one in which he came hither), and work on which he left and abandoned, in order to go to see, protect, and serve the said father Fray Joan Cobo, and to instruct him in the customs and usages of the country, as the father came in behalf of his Majesty--he will relate here what he knows. While this witness was in the kingdoms of Xapon last year, the emperor resolved to send an embassy here. This he entrusted to Faranda Queymon, but as the latter fell sick at the time of his intended departure from that country, he sent in his stead a Christian Xaponese, named Gaspar, otherwise called Faranda. This witness says that what he heard and was told regarding that matter--not only by the emperor himself, with whom he conversed several times, but by other personages and nobles of the emperor's court--was always that the intention of the king of Xapon was only to ascertain, by means of this embassy, whether these Philippines Islands were friendly or hostile to him; for if they were friendly, then he wished friendship and alliance with the governor and the Spaniards, and trade and intercourse. If they were not friendly, then he would consider them as enemies, and would attack them. This was the object of the embassy, and the emperor's intention, as he himself declared three or four times in the presence of this deponent, in the following formal language: "It is true that I sent Quiemon on that embassy, for, as a man who knows that land, he gave me an account of it. But what I wished was friendship, and trade and intercourse with the Castilians, as I have been informed of the good treatment given to my Xaponese there. I do not want silver, gold, soldiers, or anything else, but only to keep them as friends." This witness, as he knew the emperor's nature, and his veracity, and the punctiliousness with which he keeps his word, thinks that he does not claim vassalage, tribute, or any recognition from this community and kingdom, nor does he intend to commit any wrong toward this kingdom; but rather this witness believes and knows that the emperor will aid this kingdom with soldiers, and whatever else might be asked from him. Therefore he thinks that he who interpreted the letter could not read or interpret it, if he asserted that the emperor demanded vassalage; for the characters used in their writing are difficult to understand. Likewise this witness declared, in regard to the arrival of father Fray Joan Cobo in the kingdoms of Xapon, that he saw that Father Cobo went from the port of Chandomar to Nangoya, where the emperor was residing, and that this witness accompanied and entertained him through the entire journey--about one hundred leguas. This witness saw with his own eyes that the city of Nangoya is a city of one hundred thousand or more inhabitants. This city was built and settled in five months. It is three leguas long, and nine leguas in circumference. It was built by order of Quambaco, by which his power was manifest. As soon as Father Cobo had arrived and was about to disembark in the port of the said city of Nangoya, a nobleman of the court came to receive him, bearing three letters--one for the said father, another for Captain Lope de Llano, and the third for the present witness. They [the father and the two captains] were borne on the shoulders of men to the house of the man who came to receive them. There lodging had been prepared by order of Cuambac. Within a week, Cuambac had the father summoned; as soon as the latter had entered the palace, the emperor bade him be seated, and received the messages that he bore. Then he made the above assertion to him with indications of great pleasure. After that he ordered a collation spread for the father, and asked him if he would like some tea to drink. The father replied that he kissed his Highness's hands. As he rose to go, the emperor ordered him to be taken to the Chanayu--a small house where the most privileged go for recreation and to drink tea [7] with the emperor. This house is well provided with gilded tables, vessels, sideboards, and braziers; and the cups and basins, and the rest of the service, are all of gold. There the emperor ordered a very fine banquet to be spread for him, and had wine carried to him. He again repeated the words above mentioned, two or three times, and then sat down. After a moment's conversation, he took leave of the father. Thirteen days after that, he sent the father a _catana_ or sword, which is held in high estimation there in his kingdom, because of its fineness and adornments; and a letter for the governor. This letter was written on a large sheet of gilt paper resembling damask, in letters of gold. This witness saw it, and took it in his hand, and had it read many times. In brief, it contained these words: "I sent Quiemon, as he is a man of intelligence, and as he had given me a relation of that country, and the good treatment shown to my vassals there; but I do not desire silver, gold, or soldiers, or anything else, but only fast friendship with your nation, for I hold everything under my sway. In Coray [Corea] my captains have already taken the king prisoner, and are now near Lanquin, and about to seize China. I am sending you a sword now, in order that you may have some remembrance from me in that country. You shall have this written to your king, and shall send me his reply. To the lioccata of Manila, Huye Çama," (that is to say, "the great captain") The honor shown to father Fray Joan Cobo was never shown to any foreigner or native, according to the assertion of this witness, as one who has a thorough understanding of the customs and laws of that country. From all of the above it can be understood that the said father was received and his business despatched with great honor. And, as to the father not having come to this country, this witness declares that be knows that the father embarked, after receiving many presents and supplies. The vessel on which he embarked was in poor repair, and the season the very depth of winter. The sea was in great turmoil, and the winds contrary. On this account he thinks that the father perished at sea. As to the person of the ambassador Faranda, he knows him to be a man of influence in Xapon, who was recently created a lord by the emperor of that country. The emperor ordered him to come here in attendance on father Fray Joan Cobo, as one who was held in high estimation. For this reason, this witness thinks that his coming is without any duplicity, or cause for suspicion--beyond a little vanity, to show that he is a lord, and one whom the emperor chooses for things as important as this. Therefore this community has no grounds for fear of any wrong being done by that country; but should, on the contrary, esteem highly the friendship made with the said emperor; and as the latter is a friend so powerful and important, his ambassador should be served and entertained in the manner that seems most desirable to the governor. This witness asserts the above, by the oath he took, to be what he knows and what he has heard. He is thirty-eight years old. He affixed his signature to the above. _Joan de Solis_ Before me: _Joan De Cuellar_ In the city of Manila, on the first of June, one thousand five hundred and ninety-three, for the investigation of the aforesaid matter, an oath was received in due form of law, before God and on the sign of the cross, from Antonio Lopez, a Chinese Christian, an interpreter. He took the oath, and promised, under charge thereof, to tell the truth. Being questioned regarding the matter, this witness declared that he went to the kingdoms of Xapon last year with Father Cobo. He saw that the father was very courteously received by the emperor upon his arrival there; for he saw Father Cobo enter [the palace] and go to meet the emperor. He saw that Father Cobo appeared very happy and cheerful, and heard him say that after a few days he was to go back with his business well despatched. He saw the father embark well and happy, with a present from the emperor of a very fine _catana_, or sword, for the governor of the Philippinas. Father Cobo gave this witness a letter, which he brought to the governor, for he sailed in the ambassador's ship, by order of Father Cobo. This witness knows that the emperor was very friendly to the Spaniards, and that the ambassador Faranda Queimon came to make a treaty of peace. The latter is the same man whom they saw enter and go with Father Cobo to meet the emperor. Queimon is not hostile, but friendly. This is the truth and nothing else, on his oath. He is about forty years old. He signed the above, according to his custom. Before me: _Joan de Cuellar_ Collated with the original: _Juan de Cuellar_ [_Endorsed_: "Matters discussed with the governor by Faranda, ambassador from Japon."] Antonio said that he heard that the emperor of Japon gave the conquest of these islands to Kunquyn. He also heard the soldiers of the house of Kunquyn say that they would like to come to these islands; and they asked him if the people of Cagayan were subdued. Upon Antonio replying "yes," they said "no," and that they knew it. He has heard that the king of Japon gave the conquest of the island of Ermosa to a Japanese; and that, when this man shall come to these islands, he will come through them, island by island, and that they had already set out. The greatest distance between any of these islands is about two days' sail by sea, and one or two nights. The Xaponese laughed when they heard Antonio say that these islands contained four or five thousand Spaniards. They said that the defense of these islands was merely a matter for jest, for one hundred of the Japanese were worth two or three hundred of us; and that, therefore, the conquest of these islands presented no difficulty. They declared that the natives of Cagayan were ill-disposed toward us; and that the Japanese would no sooner land in Cagayan, than the natives would deliver the Spaniards to them. Antonio declared further that three large ships were being built in Japon; and he could not understand why, unless for these islands, as they had no need of them for other purposes. Antonio Lopez declares further that he heard in Japon that the king ordered this ambassador to return with the news, if the people of Luçon should submit. But if they did not submit, then he should order none of the Japanese here to return to Japon; as he would kill those who did return, for he wished them to live here. Antonio thinks that caution regarding the Japanese here should still be maintained--for, as I understand, there are three hundred or more Japanese here, and one hundred and fifty came in the ambassador's ship. According to Antonio's opinion, no confidence should be placed in the infidel Sangleys; for many of them have been in Japon, and those most evil and most opposed to the Chinese are those very Chinese. He declares that a Japanese, named Don Baltasar, conspired with Don Agustin at the time of the revolt. This was told to Antonio Lopez by a Christian Sangley in Firando. He declares that there are many of the Japanese here who came to Cagayan seven years ago, and that the pilot who has just arrived in this ship also went to Cagayan, to plunder. He has many times heard the Japanese say that they would go to Ciuteui, thence to Cagayan; and that the king of Japon ordered the inhabitants of Liutai not to render homage any longer to China. They recognized that country to the extent that, when the reigning king died, his successor had to be approved by China. All the trees in Japon are assigned to the king; and no one may cut them without his permission. Antonio declares that little confidence can be placed in the Sangleys, in the Parian; for many of them, having been promised some vassals by the Japanese, are in rebellion. In Japon there is universal talk of the abundance of gold in this land. On this account, the soldiers are anxious to come here; and are coming, as they do not care to go to Core, which is a poor country. Those who come from Core say: "Formerly when we were going to plunder their country, the Chinese immediately united with us; but now there is no one in Core who cares for our friendship, but all love the Chinese even unto death." Antonio thinks also that "the infidel Sangleys should not be allowed to go to the Visayas, nor a Christian with many other infidels, as is the custom, but that only Christians go, on account of the acts of treachery and revolt that the Chinese, instigated by the Japanese, may attempt." He declares further that three or four Japanese asserted, in the king's court, that if they should go to Manila, the natives themselves would deliver to them the Spaniards dead. As he understands, because of this and of other things, Father Juan Cobo said that when he returned here he would confer with the governor as to the advisability of not permitting a single Japanese to remain in the country. Antonio declares that Father Juan Cobo left Japon so quickly, and at a so inopportune season, because of his fears of the Japanese; and that he had previously agreed with this Antonio Lopez to send him to Hroguyaca, on the pretext that he was going to China, but with instructions to change his course at sea, and return here. Antonio declares that Juan Sami, a master of Chinese letters, who accompanied father Fray Juan Cobo, read the letter given to this Faranda by the Japanese emperor. It contained injunctions to subdue the inhabitants of these islands, and oblige them to recognize him as lord. If the Spaniards should not do that promptly, he [the emperor] would come soon; and had it not been for the dangerous sea for half of the distance, he would have come already. Juan Sami, master of Chinese letters, declared that he accompanied father Fray Juan Cobo to Japon. There the father met Juan de Solis, a Castilian, who was much persecuted by the Portuguese. This same master presented a petition to the Japanese king, by order of father Fray Juan Cobo. This petition complained of the injuries that Juan de Solis had received from the Portuguese, who had stolen from him a quantity of gold, silver, and other property. He presented this petition to the king of Japon, on the day when he met him. The latter accordingly ordered one of his captains to return all the stolen articles; but as yet only five hundred pesos are paid. Francisco de Loadi de Oñate declares that he knows Juan de Solis; who is a captain of the king, our sovereign. This captain went, at the order of the Audiencia of Panama, to Macan, in order to purchase copper and other articles; but the Portuguese seized all his money and his vessel. They sold the ship very cheaply, and sent the crew as prisoners to Goa. From sheer pity, he entered his pulpit one day, and there complained of the injuries done to the captain--among others, maiming one of his arms. After this the aforesaid Solis, in company with a father of the Society, [8] who was about to go to Japon as visitador, went to the said kingdom. Without the knowledge of the father visitador, Solis, as soon as he arrived at Japon, presented [to the king] a rich gift, which according to various estimates cost seven or ten thousand ducados. He also presented certain letters in the name of the king our sovereign, whereupon he was very kindly received by the Japanese king. The latter gave Solis a letter ordering the refunding of all that had been taken from him, with interest. After this Solis obtained permission to build a vessel, which was already completed, all but stepping the masts. The boatswain was found dead one morning, and the ship scuttled. Solis, after the Portuguese and Theatins had denied that they had done this, went to Meaco. When the king of Japon asked him why he did not go, he told him what had happened; and recounted to him what the father visitador had done. Thereupon, the king began to persecute the Theatin fathers. The witness declares further that the said king gave the said Captain Solis a letter ordering that no Portuguese or any other person should dare or attempt to oppose him any further. _Francisco de Lorduy_ Juan Sami declared that he saw and read a letter from the king of Xapon to the governor of these islands. Its substance was as follows: "Formerly I was a man of little renown. Now all who live beneath the sky recognize me and are my vassals. I ordered the king of Core to render me homage. At his refusal, I sent my captain to war upon him, and seize his land even to the confines of Liauton. [9] This Liauton is a land with many Chinese soldiers, near which resides the king of China. I have seized the fortress of Partho, which I have subdued, and it is very devoted to me, because I love the people of that fortress as fathers and mothers love their children. Those who recognize my authority I do not ill-treat, but I send my captains to war upon whomsoever shall refuse to submit to me. I am writing this letter to thee, so that it may prove a token, signal, and reminder. Thou shalt write these things to the king of Castilla quickly, so that he may be informed thereof. Do not delay, but write at once. I send thee that sword, which is called _quihocan_." He declares that this letter was given to the father while in the court; and that when the father was about to leave, he received a second of like tenor, written later than the above. In it the emperor stated that he was sending this Faranda as ambassador. In what pertains to Corean matters, he declares that the Japanese did indeed conquer the kingdom at first, but that many soldiers came from the country of Liacaton, who harassed the Japanese greatly. After many of the Japanese had died by sword and disease, the Chinese recovered this fortress of Partho and other districts. He declares moreover, that father Fray Juan Cobo asked him: "Why dost thou fear to have the Japanese go to China?" He
tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. [Illustration] It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood. [Illustration] There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. [Illustration] [Illustration] The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile--where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent--than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity? [Illustration] The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquarians have given of the quaint humours, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly--the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. [Illustration] One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlour, but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. [Illustration] Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honours, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home-feeling completely aroused which seems to hold so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness; all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour, "when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. [Illustration] How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty: The very crowing of the cock, who is sometimes heard in the profound repose of the country, "telling the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival:-- "Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome--then no planets strike, No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling--the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, re-animates the drooping spirit,--as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land--though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold--yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Stage Coach] [Illustration] Omne benè Sine poenâ Tempus est ludendi; Venit hora, Absque morâ, Libros deponendi. _Old Holiday School Song._ [Illustration] THE STAGE COACH [Illustration: I] In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement. [Illustration] In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's box,--presents from distant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the children of this country. They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take--there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so during this season, having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an English stage-coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. [Illustration] He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of coloured handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole; the present, most probably, of some enamoured country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped; and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way up his legs. [Illustration] All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the ostler; his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of ostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A stage coach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public-house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces, and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntas of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. [Illustration] [Illustration] Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations:--"Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton--must all die; for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." [Illustration] I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the coach-windows for the last few miles, recognising every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy--"There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands. At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in livery waiting for them: he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount at once; and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. [Illustration] Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands; both talking at once, and overpowering him by questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated: for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. [Illustration] In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire, beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken seats beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely realised Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter. [Illustration] Now trees their leafy hats do bare, To reverence Winter's silver hair; A handsome hostess, merry host, A pot of ale now and a toast, Tobacco and a good coal fire, Are things this season doth require.[A] I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humoured young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial; for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impossible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few miles' distance. "It is better than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he; "and I can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashion style." His reasoning was cogent; and I must confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once with his invitation: the chaise drove up to the door; and in a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. [Illustration] FOOTNOTE: [A] Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684. [Illustration: Christmas Eve] [Illustration] Saint Francis and Saint Benedight Blesse this house from wicked wight; From the night-mare and the goblin, That is hight good-fellow Robin; Keep it from all evil spirits, Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: From curfew time To the next prime. CARTWRIGHT. [Illustration] CHRISTMAS EVE [Illustration: I] It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post-boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. "He knows where he is going," said my companion, laughing, "and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with now-a-days in its purity, the old English country gentleman; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham[B] for his text book, instead of Chesterfield: he determined, in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly honourable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his favourite range of reading is among the authors who flourished at least two centuries since; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own humour without molestation. Being representative of the oldest family in the neighbourhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of 'The Squire;' a title which has been accorded to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any little eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. [Illustration] The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seems, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall; they could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the household. [Illustration: "It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers."--PAGE 46.] My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapour, stealing up from the low grounds, and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. My companion looked round him with transport:--"How often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on school vacations! How often have I played under these trees when a boy! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do the studies of their children. He was very particular that we should play the old English games according to their original form; and consulted old books for precedent and authority for every'merrie disport;' yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow." [Illustration] We were interrupted by the clangour of a troop of dogs of all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter's bell, and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn. ----"The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart--see they bark at me!" cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals. We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion in gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical government; it smacked of the levelling system.--I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed.--Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle with politics; and he believed that he had got this notion from a member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. The Squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by modern landscape-gardeners. [Illustration] As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and now and then a burst of laughter from one end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even encouraged, by the Squire throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided everything was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snapdragon: the Yule log and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.[C] [Illustration] So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival being announced, the Squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons; one a young officer in the army, home on leave of absence; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. The Squire was a fine, healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid countenance; in which a physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. [Illustration: "The company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall."--PAGE 54.] The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the evening was far advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous family connection, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortably married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied; some at a round game of cards; others conversing around the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. [Illustration] While the mutual greetings were going on between Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and the Squire had evidently endeavoured to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in armour, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs; and in the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted; so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlour and hall. [Illustration] The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of
shall smash this old car up some day. That friend of yours, Strangwise, now he’s a remarkable man! Do you know his story?” “About his escape from Germany?” asked Desmond. The Chief nodded. “He told me something about it at dinner last night,” said Desmond, “but he’s such a modest chap he doesn’t seem to like talking about it!” “He must have a cool nerve,” replied the Chief, “he doesn’t know a word of German, except a few scraps he picked up in camp. Yet, after he got free, he made his way alone from somewhere in Hanover clear to the Dutch frontier. And I tell you he kept his eyes and ears open!” “Was he able to tell you anything good” asked Desmond. “The man’s just full of information. He couldn’t take a note of any kind, of course, but he seems to have a wonderful memory. He was able to give us the names of almost every unit of troops he came across.” He stopped to skirt a tram, then added suddenly: “Do you know him well, Okewood?” “Yes, I think I do,” said Desmond. “I lived with him for about three months in France, and we got on top-hole together. He’s a man absolutely without fear.” “Yes,” agreed the Chief. “But what about his judgment? Would you call him a well-balanced fellow? Or is he one of these harum-scarum soldier of fortune sort of chaps?” “I should say he was devilish shrewd,” replied the other. “Strangwise is a very able fellow and a fine soldier. The Brigadier thought a lot of him. There’s very little about artillery work that Strangwise doesn’t know. Our Brigadier’s a good judge, too... he was a gunner himself once, you know.” “I’m glad to hear you say that,” answered the Chief, “because there are some things he has told us, about the movements of troops, particularly, that don’t agree in the least with our own Intelligence reports. I am an old enough hand at my job to know that very often one man may be right where fifty independent witnesses are dead wrong. Yet our reports from Germany have been wonderfully accurate on the whole.” He stopped. “Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “is Strangwise a liar, do you think?” Desmond laughed. The question was so very unexpected. “Let me explain what I mean,” said the Chief. “There is a type of man who is quite incapable of telling the plain, unvarnished truth. That type of fellow might have the most extraordinary adventure happen to him and yet be unable to let it stand on its merits. When he narrates it, he trims it up with all kinds of embroidery. Is Strangwise that type?” Desmond thought a moment. “Your silence is very eloquent,” said the Chief drily. Desmond laughed. “It’s not the silence of consent,” he said, “but if you want me to be quite frank about Strangwise, Chief, I don’t mind telling you I don’t like him overmuch. We were very intimate in France. We were in some very tight corners together and he never let me down. He showed himself to be a very fine fellow, indeed. There are points about him I admire immensely. I love his fine physique, his manliness. I’m sure he’s got great strength of character, too. It’s because I admire all this about him that I think perhaps it’s just jealousy on my part when I feel...” “What?” said the Chief. “Well,” said Desmond slowly, “I feel myself trying to like something below the surface in the man. And then I am balked. There seems to be something abysmally deep behind the facade, if you know what I mean. If I think about it much, it seems to me that there is too much surface about Strangwise and not enough foundation! And he smiles... Well, rather often, doesn’t he?” “I know what you mean,” said the Chief. “I always tell my young men to be wary when a man smiles too much. Smiles are sometimes camouflage, to cover up something that mustn’t be seen underneath! Strangwise is a Canadian, isn’t he?” “I think so,” answered Desmond, “anyhow, he has lived there. But he got his commission over here. He came over some time in 1915, I believe, and joined up.” “Ah, here we are!” cried the Chief, steering the car down a turning marked “Laleham Villas.” Laleham Villas proved to be an immensely long terrace of small two-story houses, each one exactly like the other, the only difference between them lying in the color of the front doors and the arrangement of the small strip of garden in front of each. The houses stretched away on either side in a vista of smoke-discolored yellow brick. The road was perfectly straight and, in the dull yellow atmosphere of the winter morning, unspeakably depressing. The abode of small clerks and employees, Laleham Villas had rendered up, an hour before, its daily tribute of humanity to the City-bound trains of the Great Eastern Railway. The Mackwayte’s house was plainly indicated, about 200 yards down on the right-hand side, by a knot of errand boys and bareheaded women grouped on the side-walk. A large, phlegmatic policeman stood at the gate. “You’ll like Marigold,” said the Chief to Desmond as they got out of the car, “quite a remarkable man and very sound at his work!” British officers don’t number detective inspectors among their habitual acquaintances, and the man that came out of the house to meet them was actually the first detective that Desmond had ever met. Ever since the Chief had mentioned his name, Desmond had been wondering whether Mr. Marigold would be lean and pale and bewildering like Mr. Sherlock Holmes or breezy and wiry like the detectives in American crook plays. The man before him did not bear the faintest resemblance to either type. He was a well-set up, broad-shouldered person of about forty-five, very carefully dressed in a blue serge suit and black overcoat, with a large, even-tempered countenance, which sloped into a high forehead. The neatly brushed but thinning locks carefully arranged across the top of the head testified to the fact that Mr. Marigold had sacrificed most of his hair to the vicissitudes of his profession. When it is added that the detective had a small, yellow moustache and a pleasant, cultivated voice, there remains nothing further to say about Mr. Marigold’s external appearance. But there was something so patent about the man, his air of reserve, his careful courtesy, his shrewd eyes, that Desmond at once recognized him for a type, a cast from a certain specific mould. All services shape men to their own fashion. There is the type of Guardsman, the type of airman, the type of naval officer. And Desmond decided that Mr. Marigold must be the type of detective, though, as I have said, he was totally unacquainted with the _genus_. “Major Okewood, Marigold,” said the Chief, “a friend of mine!” Mr. Marigold mustered Desmond in one swift, comprehensive look. “I won’t give you my hand, Major,” the detective said, looking down at Desmond’s proffered one, “for I’m in a filthy mess and no error. But won’t you come in, sir?” he said to the Chief and led the way across the mosaic tile pathway to the front door which stood open. “I don’t think this is anything in your line, sir,” said Mr. Marigold to the Chief as the three men entered the house, “it’s nothing but just a common burglary. The old man evidently heard a noise and coming down, surprised the burglar who lost his head and killed him. The only novel thing about the whole case is that the old party was shot with a pistol and not bludgeoned, as is usually the case in affairs of this kind. And I shouldn’t have thought that the man who did it was the sort that carries a gun...” “Then you know who did it?” asked the Chief quietly. “I think I can safely say I do, sir,” said Mr. Marigold with the reluctant air of one who seldom admits anything to be a fact, “I think I can go as far as that! And we’ve got our man under lock and key!” “That’s a smart piece of work, Marigold,” said the Chief. “No, sir,” replied the other, “you could hardly call it that. He just walked into the arms of a constable over there near Goodmayes Station with the swag on him. He’s an old hand... we’ve known him for a receiver for years! “Who is it?” asked the Chief, “not one of my little friends, I suppose, eh, Marigold!” “Dear me, no, sir,” answered Mr. Marigold, chuckling, “it’s one of old Mackwayte’s music-hall pals, name o’ Barney!” CHAPTER V. THE MURDER AT SEVEN KINGS “This is Mrs. Chugg, sir,” said Mr. Marigold, “the charwoman who found the body!” The Chief and Desmond stood at the detective’s side in the Mackwaytes’ little dining-room. The room was in considerable disorder. There was a litter of paper, empty bottles, overturned cruets and other _débris_ on the floor, evidence of the thoroughness with which the burglar had overhauled the cheap fumed oak sideboard which stood against the wall with doors and drawers open. In the corner, the little roll-top desk showed a great gash in the wood round the lock where it had been forced. The remains of a meal still stood on the table. Mrs. Chugg, a diminutive, white-haired, bespectacled woman in a rusty black cape and skirt, was enthroned in the midst of this scene of desolation. She sat in an armchair by the fire, her hands in her lap, obviously supremely content with the position of importance she enjoyed. At the sound of Mr. Marigold’s voice, she bobbed up and regarded the newcomers with the air of a tragedy queen. “Yus mister,” she said with the slow deliberation of one who thoroughly enjoys repeating an oft-told tale, “I found the pore man and a horrid turn it give me, too, I declare! I come in early this morning a-purpose to turn out these two rooms, the dining-room and the droring-room, same as I always do of a Saturday, along of the lidy’s horders and wishes. I come in ’ere fust, to pull up the blinds and that, and d’reckly I switches on the light ‘Burglars!’ I sez to meself, ‘Burglars! That’s wot it is!’ seeing the nasty mess the place was in. Up I nips to Miss Mackwayte’s room on the first floor and in I bursts. ‘Miss,’ sez I, ‘Miss, there’s been burglars in the house!’ and then I sees the pore lamb all tied up there on ’er blessed bed! Lor, mister, the turn it give me and I ain’t telling you no lies! She was strapped up that tight with a towel crammed in ’er mouth she couldn’t ’ardly dror ’er breath! I undid ’er pretty quick and the fust thing she sez w’en I gets the towl out of her mouth, the pore dear, is ‘Mrs. Chugg,’ she sez all of a tremble as you might say, ‘Mrs. Chugg’ sez she, ‘my father! my father!’ sez she. With that up she jumps but she ’adn’t put foot to the floor w’en down she drops! It was along of ’er being tied up orl that time, dyer see, mister! I gets ’er back on the bed. ‘You lie still, Miss,’ says I, ‘and I’ll pop in and tell your pa to come in to you!’ Well; I went to the old genelmun’s room. Empty!” Mrs. Chugg paused to give her narrative dramatic effect. “And where did you find Mr. Mackwayte?” asked the Chief in such a placid voice that Mrs. Chugg cast an indignant glance at him. “I was jes’ going downstairs to see if ’e was in the kitching or out at the back,” she continued, unheeding the interruption, “when there on the landing I sees a foot asticking out from under the curting. I pulls back the curting and oh, Lor! oh, dear, oh, dear, the pore genelmun, ’im as never did a bad turn to no one!” “Come, come, Mrs. Chugg!” said the detective. The charwoman wiped her eyes and resumed. “’E was a-lying on his back in ’is dressing-gown, ’is face all burnt black, like, and a fair smother o’ blood. Under ’is hed there was a pool o’ blood, mister, yer may believe me or not...” Mr. Marigold cut in decisively. “Do you wish to see the body, sir?” the detective asked the Chief, “they’re upstairs photographing it!” The Chief nodded. He and Desmond followed the detective upstairs, whilst Mrs. Chugg resentfully resumed her seat by the fire. On her face was the look of one who has cast pearls before swine. “Any finger-prints?” asked the Chief in the hall. “Oh, no,” he said, “Barney’s far too old a hand for that sort o’ thing!” The landing proved to be a small space, covered with oilcloth and raised by a step from the bend made by the staircase leading to the first story. On the left-hand side was a window looking on a narrow passage separating the Mackwayte house from its neighbors and leading to the back-door. By the window stood a small wicker-work table with a plant on it. At the back of the landing was a partition, glazed half-way up and a door—obviously the bath-room. The curtain had been looped right over its brass rod. The body lay on its back at the foot of the table, arms flung outward, one leg doubled up, the other with the foot just jutting out over the step leading down to the staircase. The head pointed towards the bath-room door. Over the right eye the skin of the face was blackened in a great patch and there was a large blue swelling, like a bruise, in the centre. There was a good deal of blood on the face which obscured the hole made by the entrance of the bullet. The eyes were half-closed. A big camera, pointed downwards, was mounted on a high double ladder straddling the body and was operated by a young man in a bowler hat who went on with his work without taking the slightest notice of the detective and his companions. “Close range,” murmured Desmond, after glancing at the dead man’s face, “a large calibre automatic pistol, I should think!” “Why do you think it was a large calibre pistol, Major?” asked Mr. Marigold attentively. “I’ve seen plenty of men killed at close range by revolver and rifle bullets out at the front,” replied Desmond, “but I never saw a man’s face messed up like this. In a raid once I shot a German at point blank range with my revolver, the ordinary Army issue pattern, and I looked him over after. But it wasn’t anything like this. The only thing I’ve seen approaching it was one of our sergeants who was killed out on patrol by a Hun officer who put his gun right in our man’s face. That sergeant was pretty badly marked, but...” He shook his head. Then he added, addressing the detective: “Let’s see the gun! Have you got it?” Mr. Marigold shook his head. “He hadn’t got it on him,” he answered, “he swears he never had a gun. I expect he chucked it away somewhere. It’ll be our business to find it for him!” He smiled rather grimly, then added: “Perhaps you’d care to have a look at Miss Mackwayte’s room, sir!” “Is Miss Mackwayte there” asked the Chief. “I got her out of this quick,” replied Mr. Marigold, “she’s had a bad shock, poor girl, though she gave her evidence clearly enough for all that... as far as it goes and that’s not much. Some friends near by have taken her in! The doctor has given her some bromide and says she’s got to be kept quiet...” “What’s her story!” queried the Chief. “She can’t throw much light on the business. She and her father reached home from the theatre about a quarter past twelve, had a bit of supper in the dining-room and went up to bed before one o’clock. Miss Mackwayte saw her father go into his room, which is next to hers, and shut the door. The next thing she knows is that she woke up suddenly with some kind of a loud noise in her ears... that was the report of the pistol, I’ve no doubt... she thought for a minute it was an air raid. Then suddenly a hand was pressed over her mouth, something was crammed into her mouth and she was firmly strapped down to the bed.” “Did she see the man?” asked Desmond. “She didn’t see anything from first to last,” answered the detective, “as far as she is concerned it might have been a woman or a black man who trussed her up. It was quite dark in her bedroom and this burglar fellow, after binding and gagging her, fastened a bandage across her eyes into the bargain. She says she heard him moving about her room and then creep out very softly. The next thing she knew was Mrs. Chugg arriving at her bedside this morning.” “What time did this attack take place?” asked the Chief. “She has no idea,” answered the detective. “She couldn’t see her watch and they haven’t got a striking clock in the house.” “But can she make no guess!” “Well, she says she thinks it was several hours before Mrs. Chugg arrived in the morning... as much as three hours, she thinks!” “And what time did Mrs. Chugg arrive!” “At half-past six!” “About Mackwayte... how long was he dead when they found him? What does the doctor say?” “About three hours approximately, but you know, they can’t always tell to an hour or so!” “Well,” said the Chief slowly, “it looks as if one might figure the murder as having been committed some time between 3 and 3.30 a.m.” “My idea exactly,” said Mr. Marigold. “Shall we go upstairs?” He conducted the Chief and Desmond up the short flight of stairs to the first story. He pushed open the first door he came to. “Mackwayte’s room, on the back,” he said, “bed slept in, as you see, old gentleman’s clothes on a chair—obviously he was disturbed by some noise made by the burglar and came out to see what was doing! And here,” he indicated a door adjoining, “is Miss Mackwayte’s room, on the front; as you observe. They don’t use the two rooms on the second floor, except for box-rooms... one’s full of old Mackwayte’s theatre trunks and stuff. They keep no servant; Mrs. Chugg comes in each morning and stays all day. She goes away after supper every evening.” Desmond found himself looking into a plainly furnished but dainty bedroom with white furniture and a good deal of chintz about. There were some photographs and pictures hanging on the walls. The room was spotlessly clean and very tidy. Desmond remarked on this, asking if the police had put the room straight. Mr. Marigold looked quite shocked. “Oh, no, everything is just as it was when Mrs. Chugg found Miss Mackwayte this morning. There’s Miss Mackwayte’s gloves and handbag on the toilet-table just as she left ’em last night. I wouldn’t let her touch her clothes even. She went over to Mrs. Appleby’s in her dressing-gown, in a taxi.” “Then Master Burglar didn’t burgle this room?” asked the Chief. “Nothing touched, not even the girl’s money,” replied Marigold. “Then why did he come up here at all?” asked Desmond. “Obviously, the old gentleman disturbed him,” was the detective’s reply. “Barney got scared and shot the old gentleman, then came up here to make sure that the daughter would not give him away before he could make his escape. He must have known the report of the gun would wake her up.” “But are there no clues or finger-prints or anything of that kind here, Marigold?” asked the Chief. “Not a finger-print anywhere,” responded the other, “men like Barney are born wise to the fingerprint business, sir.” He dipped a finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket. “Clues? Well, I’ve got one little souvenir here which I daresay a writer of detective stories would make a good bit of.” He held in his hand a piece of paper folded flat. He unfolded it and disclosed a loop of dark hair. “There!” he said mockingly, straightening out the hair and holding it up in the light. “That’s calculated to set one’s thoughts running all over the place, isn’t it? That piece of hair was caught in the buckle of one of the straps with which Miss Mackwayte was bound to the bed. Miss Mackwayte, I would point out, has brown hair. _Whose hair do you think that is?_” Desmond looked closely at the strand of hair in the detective’s fingers. It was long and fine and glossy and jetblack. The Chief laughed and shook his head. “Haven’t an idea, Marigold,” he answered, “Barney’s, I should imagine, that is, if he goes about with black ringlets falling round his shoulders.” “Barney?” echoed the detective. “Barney’s as bald as I am. Besides, if you saw his sheet, you’d realize that he has got into the habit of wearing his hair short!” He carefully rolled the strand of hair up, replaced it in its paper and stowed it in his waistcoat pocket. “It just shows how easily one is misled in a matter of this kind,” he went on. “Supposing Barney hadn’t got himself nabbed, supposing I hadn’t been able to find out from Miss Mackwayte her movements on the night previous to the murder, that strand of hair might have led me on a fine wild goose chase!” “But, damn it, Marigold,” exclaimed the Chief, laughing, “you haven’t told us whose hair it is?” “Why, Nur-el-Din’s, of course!” The smile froze on the Chief’s lips, the laughter died out of his eyes. Desmond was amazed at the change in the man. The languid interest he had taken in the different details of the crime vanished. Something seemed to tighten up suddenly in his face and manner. “Why Nur-el-Din?” he asked curtly. Mr. Marigold glanced quickly at him. Desmond remarked that the detective was sensible of the change too. “Simply because Miss Mackwayte spent some time in the dancer’s dressing-room last night, sir,” he replied quietly, “she probably sat at her dressing-table and picked up this hair in hers or in her veil or something and it dropped on the bed where one of Master Barney’s buckles caught it up.” He spoke carelessly but Desmond noticed that he kept a watchful eye on the other. The Chief did not answer. He seemed to have relapsed into the preoccupied mood in which Desmond had found him that morning. “I was going to suggest, sir,” said Mr. Marigold diffidently, “if you had the time, you might care to look in at the Yard, and see the prisoner. I don’t mind telling you that he is swearing by all the tribes of Judah that he’s innocent of the murder of old Mackwayte. He’s got an amazing yarn... perhaps you’d like to hear it!” Mr. Marigold suddenly began to interest Desmond. His proposal was put forward so modestly that one would have thought the last thing he believed possible was that the Chief should acquiesce in his suggestion. Yet Desmond had the feeling that the detective was far from being so disinterested as he wished to seem. It struck Desmond that the case was more complicated than Mr. Marigold admitted and that the detective knew it. Had Mr. Marigold discovered that the Chief knew a great deal more about this mysterious affair than the detective knew himself? And was not his attitude of having already solved the problem of the murder, his treatment of the Chief as a dilettante criminologist simply an elaborate pose, to extract from the Chief information which had not been proffered? The Chief glanced at his watch. “Right,” he said, “I think I’d like to go along.” “I have a good deal to do here still,” observed Mr. Marigold, “so, if you don’t mind, I won’t accompany you. But perhaps, sir, you would like to see me this afternoon?” The Chief swung round on his heel and fairly searched Mr. Marigold with a glance from beneath his bushy eyebrows. The detective returned his gaze with an expression of supreme innocence. “Why, Marigold,” answered the Chief, “I believe I should. Six o’clock suit you?” “Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Marigold. Desmond stood by the door, vastly amused by this duel of wits. The Chief and Mr. Marigold made a move towards the door, Desmond turned to open it and came face to face with a large framed photograph of the Chief hanging on the wall of Miss Mackwayte’s bedroom. “Why, Chief,” he cried, “you never told me you knew Miss Mackwayte!” The Chief professed to be very taken aback by this question. “Dear me, didn’t I, Okewood?” he answered with eyes laughing, “she’s my secretary!” CHAPTER VI. “NAME O’BARNEY” “Miss Mackwayte telephoned to ask if I could go and see her,” said the Chief to Desmond as they motored back to White hall, “Marigold gave me the message just as we were coming out. She asked if I could come this afternoon. I’m going to send you in my place, Okewood. I’ve got a conference with the head of the French Intelligence at three, and the Lord knows when I shall get away. I’ve a notion that you and Miss Mackwayte will work very well together.” “Certainly,” said Desmond, “she struck me as being a very charming and clever girl. Now I know the source of your information about my movements last night!” “That you certainly don’t!” answered the Chief promptly, “if I thought you did Duff and No.39 should be sacked on the spot!” “Then it wasn’t Miss Mackwayte who told you?” “I haven’t seen or heard from Miss Mackwayte since she left my office yesterday evening. You were followed!” “But why?” “I’ll tell you all about it at, lunch!” Bated once more, Desmond retired into his shell. By this he was convinced of the utter impossibility of making the Chief vouchsafe any information except voluntarily. Mr. Marigold had evidently announced their coming to Scotland Yard, for a very urbane and delightful official met them at the entrance and conducted them to a room where the prisoner was already awaiting them in charge of a plain clothes man. There the official excused himself and retired, leaving them alone with the prisoner and his escort. Barney proved to be a squat, podgy, middle-aged Jew of the familiar East End Polish or Russian type. He had little black beady eyes, a round fat white face, and a broad squabby Mongol nose. His clothes were exceedingly seedy, and the police had confiscated his collar and tie. This absence of neckwear, coupled with the fact that the lower part of his face was sprouting with a heavy growth of beard, gave him a peculiarly villainous appearance: He was seated on a chair, his head sunk on his breast. His eyes were hollow, and his face overspread with a horrible sickly greenish pallor, the hue of the last stage of fear. His hands, resting on his knees, twisted and fiddled continually. Every now and then convulsive shudders shook him. The man was quite obviously on the verge of a collapse. As the Chief and Desmond advanced into the room, the Jew looked up in panic. Then he sprang to his feet with a scream and flung himself on his knees, crying: “Ah, no! Don’t take me away! I ain’t done no ’arm, gentlemen! S’welp me, gentlemen, I ain’t a murderer! I swear...” “Get him up!” said the Chief in disgust, “and, look here, can’t you give him a drink? I want to speak to him. He’s not fit to talk rationally in this state!” The detective pushed a bell in the wall, a policeman answered it, and presently the prisoner was handed a stiff glass of whiskey and water. After Barney had swallowed it, the Chief said: “Now, look here, my man, I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night. No fairy tales, remember! I know what you told the police, and if I catch you spinning me any yarns on to it, well, it’ll only be the worse for you. I don’t mind telling you, you’re in a pretty bad mess!” The prisoner put down the glass wearily and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Though the room was bitterly cold, the perspiration stood out in beads on his brow. “I have told the trewth, sir,” he said hoarsely, “and it goes against me, don’t it? Hafen’t I not gif myself op to the policeman? Couldn’t I not haf drop the svag and ron away? For sure! And vy didn’t I not do it? For vy, because of vot I seen in that house. I’ve ’ad my bit of trobble mit the police and vy should I tell them how I vos op to a game last night if I vas not a-telling the trewth, eh! I’ve been on the crook, gentlemen, I say it, ja, but I ain’t no murderer, God choke me I ain’t! “I’ve earned gut monney in my time on the ’alls but life is very ’ardt, and I’ve been alvays hongry these days. Yesterday I meet old Mac wot I used to meet about the ’alls I vos workin’ along o’ my boss... at the agent’s it vos were I vos lookin’ for a shop! The perfesh always makes a splash about its salaries, gentlemen, and Mac ’e vos telling me vot a lot o’ monney he make on the Samuel Circuit and ’ow ’e ’ad it at home all ready to put into var savings certif’kits. I never done a job like this von before, gentlemen, but I vos hardt pushed for money, s’welp me I vos! “I left it till late last night because of these air raids... I vanted to be sure that ole Mac and ’is daughter should be asleep. I god in from the back of the louse, oi, oi, bot it vos dead easy! through the scollery vindow. I cleared op a bagful of stuff in the dining-room... there vosn’t, anything vorth snatching outer the parlor... and sixty-five quid out of an old cigar-box in the desk. The police ’as got it... I give it all back! I say I haf stolen, but murder? No!” He paused. “Go on,” said the Chief. The prisoner looked about him in a frightened way. “I vos jus’ thinking I had better be getting avay, he continued in his hoarse, gutteral voice, ’ven snick.!... I hears a key in the front door. I vos, standing by the staircase... I had no time to get out by the vay I had kom so I vent opstairs to the landing vere there vos a curtain. I shlip behind the curtain and vait! I dare not look out but I listen, I listen.. I hear some one go into the dining-room and move about. I open the curtain a little way... so!... because I think I vill shlip downstairs vile the other party is in the dining-room... and there I sees ole Mac in his dressing-gown just coming down from the first floor. The same moment I hear a step in the front hall. “I see ole Mac start but he does not stop. He kom right downstairs, and I step back behind the curtain ontil I find a door vich I push. I dare not svitch on my light but presently I feel the cold edge of a bath with my hands. I stay there and vait. Oi, oi, oi, how shall you belief vot I tell?” He broke off trembling. “Go on, Barney,” said the detective, “can’t you see the gentlemen are waiting?” The Jew resumed, his voice sinking almost to a whisper. “It vos quite dark behind the curtain but from the bathroom, through the open door, I could just see ole Mac standing with his back to me, a-holding the curtain. He must haf shlip in there to watch the other who vos komming opstairs. Then... then... I hear a step on the stair... a little, soft step... then ole Mac he open the curtain and cry ‘Who are you?’ Bang! the... the... other on the stairs he fire a shot. I see the red flash and I smell the... the powder not? The other, he does not vait... he just go on opstairs and ole Mac is lying there on his back with the blood a-trickling out on the oil-cloth. And I, vith my bag on my back, I creep downstair and out by the back again, and I ron and ron and then I valks. Gott! how I haf walked! I vos so frightened! And then, at last, I go to a policeman and gif ‘myself op!” Barney stopped. The tears burst from his eyes and laying his grimy face on his arm, he sobbed. The detective patted him on the back. “Pull yourself together, man!” he said encouragingly. “This man on the stairs,” queried the Chief, “did you see him?” “Ach was!” replied the prisoner, turning a tearstained face towards him, “I haf seen nothing, except old Mac’s back vich vos right in vront of me, it vos so dark!” “But couldn’t you see the other person at all, not even the outline” persisted the Chief. The prisoner made a gesture of despair. “It vos so dark, I say! Nothing haf I seen! I haf heard only his step!” “What sort of step? Was it heavy or light or what? Did this person seem in a hurry?” “A little light tread... so! won, two! won, two!, and qvick like ’e think ’e sneak opstairs vithout nobody seeing!” “Did he make much noise” “Ach was! hardly at all... the tread, ’e vos so light like a woman’s...” “Like a woman’s, eh!”, repeated the Chief, as if talking to himself, “Why do you think that?” “Because for vy it vos so gentle! The’ staircase, she haf not sqveak as she haf sqveak when I haf creep away!” The Chief turned to the plain clothes man. “You can take him away now, officer,” he said. Barney sprang up trembling. “Not back to the cell,” he cried imploringly, “I cannot be alone. Oh, gentlemen, you vill speak for me! I haf not had trobble vith the police this long time! My vife’s cousin, he is an elder of the Shool he vill tell you ’ow poor ve haf been...” But the Chief crossed the room to the door and the detective hustled the prisoner away. Then the official whom they had seen before came in. “Glad I caught you,” he said. “I thought you would care to see the post mortem report. The doctor has just handed
esses liked to pass the time, some inscriptions. He did not have time to read them. When the emperor noticed them he asked Dolgoruky to remove the board. Vulgar, disgraceful, cynical and stupid words were cut on this board by soldiers’ bayonets. The imperial family was forbidden by the soldiers to visit church. They were allowed to go to church only on Dvounadesiaty holidays (very important feast-days in the Orthodox religion). The soldiers insisted that the emperor should remove the shoulder straps from his uniform. Twice he refused, but finally, after Kobylinsky informed the emperor that his refusal might result in serious trouble for himself and his family, the emperor had to submit to this demand. A little hill was made in the garden for the amusement of the children. Once the emperor and the empress viewed from the top of this small hill the departure of a large number of the soldiers (at that time many soldiers left on account of the demobilisation of the army); but afterward the remaining soldiers levelled the hill to the ground. Things became worse and worse. It was especially severe after all sources of revenue were confiscated from the imperial family. This occurred on February 12th. That day a wire from Moscow was received. I can not tell you who sent it. In this wire a new order of life for the imperial family was prescribed. Up to this time the imperial family had been maintained by the government treasury. Their life was quite appropriate and fitting for them and ran along in the same way that the former emperor and his family had been accustomed to. By the order of the Bolshevist authorities, lodging, heating and lighting were to be provided for the imperial family, everything else had to be obtained at the expense of the family or of those persons connected with them. We were also restricted in earning of money. I wanted to earn some by giving private lessons in the town, but the soldiers would not allow me to do so, and told me I was to leave the house altogether in the event that I could not adapt myself to conditions as they were. By Bolshevist orders the imperial family could not spend for themselves and their servants more than four thousand, two hundred roubles per month. This state of affairs affected life very detrimentally. Coffee, butter and cream disappeared from the table. Scarcity of sugar was felt very seriously, as sugar was distributed in the quantity of half a pound per person for each month. Dinner consisted of two courses, and for those who were accustomed from the time of their birth to entirely different conditions of life, it was far more difficult to bear the situation than it was for those who were not familiar with the luxuries that the imperial family had always enjoyed. The lack of resources and the necessity of economising made it impossible to continue to pay the church chorus for their singing during the divine services held at home. The church choristers volunteered to sing free of charge. After that a small fee was still paid to them. The number of servants was considerably reduced and ten of their staff were discharged. Finally the attitude of the soldiers became so menacing that Kobylinsky, after losing all hope of retaining or regaining control, declared to the emperor that he desired to resign from his present position. The emperor asked him to stay, and Kobylinsky yielded to his request. In order to make life a little more cheerful, playlets were staged, in which the children took an active part. The emperor tried to find forgetfulness in physical labour. He sawed wood with Tatischeff and Dolgoruky, the daughters or myself. He also attended to the lessons of the czarevitch and personally instructed him in history and geography. But all the efforts made by the emperor to conceal his feelings could not hide from any observant person his terrible sufferings. Especially after the Brest-Litovsk peace treaty a very marked change was noticed in him that indicated his mood and mental suffering. I could say that his majesty was affected by this treaty with an overwhelming grief. During this time the emperor on several occasions spoke of politics to me--a thing he had never allowed himself to do before. It seemed as if his soul was yearning for the companionship of another soul, hoping by such companionship to find relief from the intensity of his grief. I could not relate everything he told me, but the central idea of his words and thoughts was that up to the moment of the Brest-Litovsk treaty he believed in the future prosperity of Russia--after that treaty he lost all faith. During this time he criticised Kerensky and Goutchkoff in sharp terms, considering them to be the most guilty for the collapse of the army. The emperor thought that by their weakness and incapacity the army disintegrated, and the result was that it opened the way for the Germans to corrupt Russia. He regarded the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk as a disgrace and as treason on the part of Russia towards her Allies. He said: “And those who dared to accuse her majesty of treason have in the end turned out to be the real traitors.” The emperor looked upon Lenin and Trotzky, the leaders of the Bolshevist movement, as German agents who had sold Russia for a large sum of money. After the Brest-Litovsk treaty a profound disdain was felt by the emperor and empress towards the German government and Emperor Wilhelm. They both felt deeply that the German government and Emperor Wilhelm had lowered themselves by dealing with the Bolsheviki and by resorting to such outrageous methods of warfare. Such was the tenor of our life during February and March. On March 30th a delegate, previously sent to Moscow by the committee of our soldiers, returned to Tobolsk. He brought a written order to Kobylinsky which stated that our life from this time on must be more severely supervised. We were all to live in the governor’s house and a new plenipotentiary commissar had been ordered to Tobolsk for the purpose of enforcing new restrictions. On April 9th this commissar arrived. His name was Iakovleff. On April 10th he came to our house for the first time and was received by the emperor. On the same day he visited the czarevitch who at that time was sick. He returned shortly after his departure with an assistant (whose name I do not remember). They both visited the czarevitch. On the same day Iakovleff was received by the empress. Iakovleff made quite a favourable impression on the emperor, who told me that he thought Iakovleff not so bad, and that he believed him to be quite straight. The reason for Iakovleff’s arrival was quite a puzzle to us. This puzzle was solved on April 12th. On that date Iakovleff went to the emperor and announced that he had orders to take him away from Tobolsk. The emperor replied that he would not leave Tobolsk, as he could not be separated from his son who was so ill (the czarevitch during this period suffered from the same affliction he had in Spala in 1912, with the difference that this time the bruise involved paralysis of the right foot), and that he did not intend to leave his family. Iakovleff answered that he was merely fulfilling his instructions, and as the emperor refused to leave Tobolsk, a choice of two decisions had to be made: Either Iakovleff must refuse to obey the orders, in which case another commissar with fewer scruples would be sent; or he must employ force in imposing the order. At the same time Iakovleff told the emperor that he might be accompanied by any other persons he desired. The only thing that could be done was for the emperor to submit to Iakovleff’s demands. Everything that I have told in this connection I know from the words of her majesty. Nobody knew where the emperor was to be taken. His majesty inquired of Iakovleff in advance, but the latter answered in a way that did not make the matter clear. Kobylinsky told us that Iakovleff at first informed him the destination was to be Moscow, but that he later said he did not know where the emperor was going to be taken. All this sort of thing was intensely painful and humiliating for the imperial family, all of whom suffered most acutely. Her majesty was greatly tortured by having to decide whether to accompany the emperor or stay with the czarevitch. She made up her mind that she would go with the emperor and it was decided that the Grand Duchess Maria Nicholaevna should accompany them. The rest of the family was to stay in Tobolsk until the recovery of the czarevitch. Iakovleff fixed the time of departure for four o’clock in the morning of April 13th. The evening before we all had tea together. The emperor and empress wished us farewell and thanked us all for our services. At three o’clock in the morning the carts arrived at the door. They were wretched looking vehicles with plated bodies and had no seats and no springs. One had to sit on the bottom, stretching out the feet. Only one telega (peasant cart) had a “capot” (hood). In this cart we decided to place her majesty. There was hardly anything on the bottom of the carriages. We went to the court yard where an employé by the name of Kirpitchnikoff kept his pigs. There was some straw in stock. This straw we used for covering the bottom of the cart that was supplied with a hood and, I think, we put some straw also on the bottoms of some other carts. In the covered cart we also put a mattress. The emperor desired to go with her majesty and Maria Nicholaevna. Iakovleff insisted that the emperor should ride in the same cart as he did. They all left on April 13th shortly after four o’clock in the morning. At this time the following persons departed from Tobolsk: The emperor and empress, Grand Duchess Maria Nicholaevna, Botkin, Dolgoruky, Tchemodouroff, Sedneff and Demidova. They were accompanied by six Rifles men and two officers--Matveieff and Nabokoff, as well as by soldiers of Iakovleff’s detachment. Some time after the departure one of the coachmen brought us a short note from Maria Nicholaevna. She said in her note that the conditions of travelling were extremely hard, that the road was bad and the carriage was awful. Later Kobylinsky received a wire from Nabokoff announcing the arrival of the party at Tumen. Greatly to the surprise of everybody Kobylinsky suddenly received a telegram from Matveieff stating that the emperor and all the persons in his party were held up in Yekaterinburg. This was quite unexpected, as we all thought that the emperor was to be taken to Moscow. On April 24th a letter came from the empress. She wrote that they had all been placed in two rooms of the Ipatieff house, that they felt very much crowded, and that the only place where they could walk was a small garden that was very dusty. She wrote also that all their belongings had been searched, even “medicines.” In the same letter in very discreet language she made us understand that we should take from Tobolsk all our precious things. As previously agreed, she used in her letter the word “medicines” instead of “jewels.” Later Tegleva received a letter from Demidova, undoubtedly written by order of her majesty. In this letter we were instructed how to deal with jewels, instead of which she used the expression “Sedneff’s belongings.” On April 25th two officers, as well as five soldiers who escorted the emperor, returned to Tobolsk and told us the following story: Iakovleff took the emperor to Omsk. About one hundred versts before arriving at Omsk he took the train and proceeded to Omsk alone. After that he came back and turned the train towards Yekaterinburg. The commissars in Yekaterinburg held up the train. Dolgoruky was arrested and taken to prison directly from the station. All the officers and men were also put under arrest in some cellar, where they were kept for two days, and let free only on the third day and after some protest was made. The general idea to be gathered from their narrative was that the detention of the train and the party was unexpected by Iakovleff. They told us that he was hustling around all over the place, but was unable to accomplish anything. It was also told us that later, Iakovleff proceeded independently from Moscow and wired to Kobylinsky and Hohriakoff (the Chairman of the Tobolsk Soviet), that he resigned from his mission of commissar to the imperial family. We started with the preparations for our trip. On April 25th the chairman of the local soviet, Hohriakoff, visited our house for the first time. After that he called on us frequently, urging us and hurrying our departure. I remember that on May 6th, the birthday of the emperor, the grand duchesses wanted to have divine service. Hohriakoff forbade it, saying that no time should be wasted. On May 7th, at eleven o’clock in the morning, we moved to the steamer _Russ_ and about three or four o’clock that day departed from Tobolsk. We were escorted by a detachment commanded by Rodionoff, which was composed chiefly of Letts. Rodionoff did not behave well; he locked the cabin door, in which were the czarevitch and Nagorny. All the other cabins, including those of the Grand Duchesses, were locked also, by his order. On May 9th we reached Tumen and the same day took a train. We arrived at Yekaterinburg on May 10th at two a. m. During the whole night we were switching from one station to another and being transferred from one track to another. Approximately at nine o’clock the train was stopped between two stations. It was muddy and there was a continuous drizzling rain. Five isvostchiks (cabs) were awaiting us at the station. Rodionoff, with some commissars, approached the car where the children were placed. The grand duchesses walked out of the car. Tatiana Nicholaevna carried in one hand her pet dog and in the other a hand bag, the latter with great difficulty, dragging it on the pavement. Nagorny wanted to help her, but was roughly pushed aside. I noticed that Nagorny went in the same cab as the czarevitch. I remember that in every one of the other cabs there was a commissar or some other Bolshevik agent. I wanted to leave the car and wish them good-bye, but I was held up by a sentry. I never thought at that moment that I was seeing all of them for the last time; and I did not even know that I was then already discharged from the service of the imperial family. At last our train came into the station. About three hours later I saw Tatischeff, Hendrikova and Schneider being taken out of the train and escorted by soldiers. A little later Haritonoff, the little Sedneff, Volkoff and Troupp were also taken away. I had almost forgotten to say that the children were accompanied by Dr. Derevenko. In a little while Rodionoff came and announced to us that: we “were not wanted,” and that we were “free.” The Baroness Buxhoevden was then transferred to our car. In about three days we received an order from the Soviet to leave the Perm district and return to Tobolsk. We could not fulfil the order as the way was cut off by the advancing Czechs, so we stayed in Yekaterinburg. During this time I visited the town and had a look at the Ipatieff house. On the 14th or 15th of May I witnessed the following: I was walking on the streets of Yekaterinburg with Derevenko and Mr. Gibbes. While we were passing Ipatieff’s house we noticed that Sedneff was sitting in a cab surrounded by soldiers who carried rifles with fixed bayonets; in another cab Nagorny was seated. When the latter looked up he saw us and looked at us for quite a long time but did not make a single movement that could betray to the people surrounding him that he knew us. The cabs, surrounded by horsemen, quickly drove to the centre of the town. We followed them as fast as we could and finally saw them disappearing in the direction of the prison. Our party consisted of eighteen persons and we proceeded to Tumen. At Kamishlov the soviet did not allow us to go any further. We stayed there for ten days. It was dirty and the whole place was infected by disease. Finally we were attached to a train full of Serbs and we arrived at Tumen. We suffered very severely, but at present I do not want to speak about my personal suffering. In the latter part of August I was visited by Tchemodouroff. His first words were: “Thank God, the emperor, her majesty and the children are alive--all the others are killed.” He told me also that he was in the rooms of the Ipatieff house where “Botkin and others” were shot. He told me that he had seen the bodies of Sedneff and Nagorny, whom he recognised by their clothes and that their bodies were put in a coffin and buried. He told me that all the others were obliged to dress themselves in soldiers’ uniforms and had been taken away. It was difficult for me to understand Tchemodouroff, as he talked very wildly. Tchemodouroff also told me that the life of the imperial family in Yekaterinburg was terrible, that all of them were very badly treated and that they had their meals together with the servants. The commandant, Avdeieff, had his meals also with the imperial family; he was often drunk and sometimes came into the room where the imperial family was without his tunic. Tchemodouroff also told me that Avdeieff often behaved towards the emperor in an indecent and insulting manner. For example, during the meals, when he wanted to help himself from the dish, he stretched his hands before the emperor and her majesty and in doing so touched the emperor’s face with his elbow. The grand duchesses after their arrival at Yekaterinburg slept on the floor. The Bolsheviki took away from her majesty a little bag which she used to hold in her hand, and also a gold chain that supported the holy images by the czarevitch’s bed. After Tchemodouroff’s arrival Mr. Gibbes and myself went to Yekaterinburg for the purpose of giving assistance to Sergeeff, a member of the court. Tchemodouroff told us that Sergeeff was in charge of the investigation of the fate of the imperial family. Together with Sergeeff we visited the Ipatieff house and inspected the room that had the bullet holes on the wall and on the floor. In this house I found two “Egyptian signs” which the empress had the habit of drawing on various things for good luck. One of these signs I noticed on the wall paper of her majesty’s room, the other on the side of the window in a room where, under the Egyptian sign, the date was written in pencil: 17/30 April--the date of the arrival of her majesty in Yekaterinburg. My attention was also attracted to the stoves; they were all full of various burned articles. I recognised a considerable number of burned things such as tooth- and hair-brushes, pins and a number of small things bearing the initials: “A. F.” [Alexandra Feodorovna.] I got the impression that if the imperial family had been taken away from Yekaterinburg, they must have been taken as they were, without any of their belongings. All the things they might have taken with them were burned. Nevertheless, at the time I left the house I could not believe that the imperial family had perished. It seemed to me that there was such a small number of bullet holes in the room I had inspected that everybody could not have been executed. When, a considerable time later, I returned from Yekaterinburg to Tumen, Volkoff called on me. I did not recognise him at first, as I had read in the newspapers that after the attempt on the life of Lenin, Hendrikova, Schneider and Volkoff were shot. Volkoff told me that he was taken directly from the train and put in the Yekaterinburg prison. From this prison he, Hendrikova and Schneider were transferred to a prison at Perm. Tatischeff was also in prison in Yekaterinburg. He was once taken out of prison but was never put back. I could hardly understand from Volkoff’s words what happened to Tatischeff. Volkoff told me that he had seen in Tatischeff’s hands a written Bolshevik order commanding him to leave the Perm district. In the prison Volkoff was put in the same cell with the valet of the Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch. The valet said that when the grand duke resided in Perm, four armed men called on him late at night. One of them aimed his pistol at the valet and ordered him to stand still. The others told the grand duke that he had to follow them. The grand duke refused to obey their orders unless he were asked to do so by a member of the soviet personally known to him. In reply one of the armed men went up to the grand duke, took him by the collar and grumbled: “Here is one more of the Romanoffs.” On one occasion Volkoff, Hendrikova, Schneider and some other people were taken out of prison to the woods. Volkoff understood they were all going to be shot, so he started running. After he got out of danger and stopped, he heard the sounds of volleys from the place where the others had been left. He believes that Hendrikova and the rest were murdered. He thinks that the Bolsheviki considered him dead, because they were firing at him when he was running, and when he accidentally fell, he heard a voice say: “He’s done for.” About the fate of the Grand Duke Michael, Volkoff related the following: The grand duke had to submit to force and followed the armed men. One of these men remained with the valet to prevent him from calling for help. When this man left the valet ran to the soviet and told everything that had happened. A tumult started in the soviet, but nevertheless, the members of the soviet were in no hurry to start a pursuit. About an hour later they began looking for the grand duke. It was very hard to get any definite information from Volkoff about the fate of the Grand Duke Michael. I recall another detail of Volkoff’s narrative: When the grand duke followed the strangers the valet said to him: “Your highness, don’t forget to take your medicine from the stove shelf.” I have nothing more to declare. My statement has been read to me and it is correctly written. (_Signed_) GILLIARD, “ N. SOKOLOFF. II EXAMINATION OF MR. GIBBES [_The deposition of Mr. Gibbes should prove interesting to the public as being that of an Englishman who was wholly and unselfishly devoted to the imperial family. Sidney Gibbes acted as tutor to the czarevitch, and after the arrest of the emperor and his family, he followed them to Tobolsk without a thought for his own safety._ _Mr. Gibbes knew the emperor and the empress intimately during these days of sorrow, and his deposition shows that the czar was genuinely affected by the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk and the subsequent Red ruin of Russia. These recollections are absolutely unbiased, and there is no reason to doubt their accuracy._--Editor’s Note.] On July 1, 1919, the Investigating Magistrate for Cases of Special Importance of the Omsk Tribunal, N. A. Sokoloff, questioned in Yekaterinburg the man named below in conformity with Paragraph 443 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, in the capacity of a witness, and the witness stated, in reply to questions: My name is Sidney Ivanovitch Gibbes. Up to the year 1916 I was a visiting teacher of the English language to the grand duchesses and the czarevitch. I started my lessons with the Grand Duchesses Olga Nicholaevna, Tatiana Nicholaevna and Maria Nicholaevna in 1908. When Anastasia grew up I began to give her lessons also. I started to give instructions to the czarevitch in 1914. In 1916 I was appointed tutor to the czarevitch. The same year I moved to the Yekaterinensky Palace. In 1917 the duties of tutor to the czarevitch were performed partly by myself and partly by Gilliard. During the early part of the revolution the imperial family resided in Czarskoe-Selo. The empress and all the children were there. The emperor was at the Stavka. At the beginning of the revolution all the children were taken ill with the measles. The first to be attacked by that disease was the czarevitch and after him, all the daughters in succession. Personally I did not observe how the news of the revolution was taken by the empress. I heard from someone who was near to her that she wept. As far as I know the empress, my conviction is that she did not expect the revolution. It seemed to me that the empress thought that only a few concessions ought to have been made. The revolution was a blow to her and therefore she suffered, but being a firm character she did not cry very much. The empress and the imperial family were arrested by General Korniloff. I was not present at the palace during the time of the arrest. I can not tell how it happened. I know that Korniloff was received by her majesty and that he announced to her that she was under arrest. The empress told me about that. She did not give me any details; she just related all that in a general way and, at the same time, added that she was very cold towards Korniloff and did not give him her hand. After Komiloff’s announcement of the arrest I was not allowed into the palace. My request for admittance met with a negative response. The provisional government would not allow me to stay with the imperial family. I remember this fact distinctly. I saw the letter which stated so. It bore the signature of five ministers. At the present time I do not remember their names, but I have it plainly in my memory that there were the signatures of five ministers. It was stated in my application that I was giving lessons to the children. I can not tell whether the answer also carried the signature of the minister of public education. Being an Englishman I considered all this very funny. Such is the reason why I was not allowed to be with the imperial family during the time of their stay in Czarskoe-Selo, and consequently, I did not see anything of their life during that period of time. Later I heard in Tobolsk that some soldiers and officers in Czarskoe-Selo behaved roughly towards the imperial family. The emperor himself told me in Tobolsk that on one occasion an officer refused to shake hands with him, explaining to him that he was on duty, and, therefore, had no right to shake hands. The emperor also spoke to me a little about Kerensky. He said that Kerensky was very nervous when he spoke with him. In fact, once he was so nervous that he grabbed an ivory knife from the wall and nervously began bending it so badly that the emperor was afraid he would break the knife, and so he took it away from him. The emperor also told me that Kerensky believed that he (the emperor) wanted to make a separate peace with Germany. The emperor denied that this was so. Kerensky insisted, and got nervous. I can not tell whether the private papers of the emperor were searched by Kerensky or not; but the emperor told me that Kerensky believed he had some papers that indicated his desire of making peace with Germany. I knew the emperor well and I understood the feeling of disdain he had towards Kerensky, when he spoke to me on those subjects. Kerensky was very nervous the day of the departure of the imperial family from Czarskoe-Selo. During the night he telephoned to the minister of communication, insisting upon his coming at once to Czarskoe-Selo. The minister of communication was in bed at this time, but that fact did not deter Kerensky. I can not tell anything else about the life of the imperial family in Czarskoe-Selo. I was devoted to the family and I wanted to be near them. I went to Tobolsk of my own free will. I arrived in Tobolsk in the beginning of October. From Tumen I travelled with Klavdia Michaelovna Bitner. For two days I lived in Korniloff’s house. On the third day, at one p.m. I was called by the emperor. He received me in his workroom. The empress and the czarevitch were also present. I was very glad to see them and they were very glad to see me. At this time the empress began to realise that not all the people who had been devoted to her were unfaithful. Our stay in Tobolsk was altogether very agreeable. I did not see anything very objectionable in the conditions of our life. Certainly there were some disadvantages as compared to what it had previously been; there were lots of trifles that created friction, but one could get used to them. We all used to work very hard. The empress was teaching theology to the children (all the children took lessons except Olga Nicholaevna who had completed her course of studies in 1914). She also taught a little German to Tatiana Nicholaevna. The emperor personally gave lessons in history to the czarevitch. Klavdia Michaelovna Bitner was giving instruction in mathematics and the Russian language to the Grand Duchesses Maria, Anastasia and the czarevitch. Hendrikova gave lessons in history to Tatiana Nicholaevna. I was instructor in English. The lessons started at nine a. m. and continued up to eleven o’clock. From eleven till twelve o’clock the children were free to take a walk. Studies were resumed at twelve and continued for an hour. At one p. m. lunch was served, and after that coffee was drunk. According to the doctor’s advice the czarevitch had to rest a little on the sofa after lunch. During his rest Gilliard or myself used to read to him aloud. After that Nagorny dressed the czarevitch and we went out for a walk till about four or five o’clock. After we returned the emperor gave a lesson in history to the czarevitch. After the lesson the czarevitch liked very much to play a game called: “The slower you ride the farther you go.” We divided into two parties: The czarevitch, Gilliard or myself were one party; Dolgoruky and Schneider the other. The czarevitch used to be extremely fond of that game. Schneider also used to put her heart into the game and fussed a little with Dolgoruky over it. This was quite funny. We played the game nearly every day and Schneider always used to say that she would never play the game again. From six to seven p. m. the czarevitch took lessons with me or with Gilliard. From seven to eight p. m. he prepared his lessons for the next day. Dinner was served at eight p. m. After dinner the family assembled upstairs. Sometimes we played cards. I played double patience with Schneider. Tatischeff, Olga Nicholaevna, Botkin, Schneider, Gilliard and Dolgoruky played bridge. The children and the emperor occasionally played bézique. At times the emperor read aloud. Sometimes the Grand Duchesses Olga, Maria, and Anastasia would go up to Demidova’s room where Toutelberg, Ersberg and Tegleva had their meals. Occasionally Gilliard, Dolgoruky, the czarevitch or myself used to accompany them. We stayed some time in this room and had plenty of jokes and laughter. The emperor got up early. At nine a. m. he always had tea in his workroom and read till eleven a. m. He then had a walk in the garden and during the walk always took some physical exercise. In Tobolsk he frequently used to saw logs. With some assistance the emperor built up a platform on the roof of the orangery. A staircase which was constructed by our combined efforts led to the platform. The emperor liked very much to sit on this platform when the weather was stormy. Up till noon the emperor took his exercises, after which he always used to go to his daughters’ room where sandwiches were served. Later he retired to his quarters and worked till lunch time. After lunch the emperor took a walk or worked in the garden till dusk. At five p. m. the family had tea, after which the emperor used to read till supper time. The empress got up at different times, sometimes much later than others. Sometimes she was ready with everybody else, but she was never seen by strangers in the morning. There were times when the empress came out only for lunch. In the morning she occupied herself with her children or worked at something. She preferred fancy work: embroidery or painting. When there was nobody in the house, and she was left all by herself, she played the piano. The lunch and dinner were good. At lunch we used to have soup, fish, meat and dessert. Coffee was served upstairs. The dinner was similar to the lunch, with the difference that some fruits were served. If the empress was present at dinner we used to sit in the following order: The emperor in the middle of the table; opposite him, the empress. To the right of the emperor, Hendrikova, and next to her the Grand Duchess Maria. To the left of the emperor, Schneider and Dolgoruky. To the empress’s right, the czarevitch; to her left, Tatischeff and the Grand Duchess Tatiana. Gilliard was seated at the end of the table and opposite to him were the Grand Duchess Anastasia and myself. If the empress dined upstairs her place was taken by the Grand Duchess Olga. Botkin always dined with the imperial family, but had his lunch with his own family. He was seated with the Grand Duchess Olga and the czarevitch. Sometimes on holy days Dr. Derevenko and his son Kolia were invited to dinner. Dinner was cooked by Haritonoff. The food was good and there was plenty of everything. Besides dinner and lunch, tea was served twice daily. In the morning the emperor had tea with the Grand Duchess Olga in his workroom. Tea in the evening was always served in the emperor’s workroom and only the family was present. At the time of my arrival in Tobolsk two commissars, Pankratoff and Nikolsky, stayed there. Pankratoff was not a bad sort of a fellow, but showed weakness, and was influenced by Nikolsky. Pankratoff did not cause us any uneasiness. The emperor used to talk to him and Pankratoff told him many interesting things about Siberia, where he used to live in exile. The emperor spoke in a rather sarcastic way about Pankratoff calling him, “the little man”--he was rather small in stature. Nikolsky was rough and the family did not like him. I do not remember if Nikolsky ever made us feel uncomfortable or if ever the czarevitch cried on account of his rudeness. During the Bolshevik period no commissars were allowed in our house
And as he returned to his observation of the young man Edgar saw him take a quick breath, and saw his lips meet. It was in this single instant that the young man, urged no doubt by an impulse as incalculable as Edgar's, drew his eyes from the girl. He turned sharply and looked at Edgar. Their glances crossed. Both smiled. CHAPTER TWO: NEW FRIENDS i Harry Greenlees, the young man with the flashing teeth, had been given his Rugby blue ten or eleven years before, and had helped Oxford to beat Cambridge in a memorable year. Since leaving the University he had played for two seasons with the Harlequins; but his footballing days were over now as he could no longer endure the strain of ninety-minutes' incessant conflict. During the rather aimless experiments which followed in the art of earning a living without exertion, Harry had revived an undergraduate habit of writing sporting descriptive articles, and to fellow-journalists his competence for this work was known. It was not, however, celebrated among his friends or the general public, and as he had fallen in quite by accident with a semi-literary and artistic set, the members of which took him for granted as a cheerful companion with enough money to live on, Harry enjoyed a most agreeable sort of life. His work was slangy and vigorous, and if it did not produce an income upon which a man of his type could exist, it made sufficient the small private means which were already at Harry's command. He was able to support himself in comfort and to go about the world very much at his ease. Abroad, Harry walked, with a knapsack on his shoulders, and saw the countries of Europe from the road. It was for papers chiefly concerned with out-of-door life and sport that he worked, and accordingly he found material ready for his eye and his fountain-pen wherever he turned for diversion. His was a life of varied pleasure, and for as long as he remained fit he would find it inexhaustible in possibilities. He was a lively companion and a good sort. He was full of zest, making friends lightly and as lightly letting them go. Everybody felt his honesty and his energy, and he had neither the mannerisms of the unduly famous nor the menacing air of those who are intellectually better than their company. He was happy, impulsive, handsome, agreeable, and charming. It needed an Edgar Mayne to detect his faults, and Harry was too unsuspecting and satisfied to suppose that others were more subtle than himself. He had been talking to Rhoda Flower, the dark girl with the milk-white face, when he first observed Edgar. And Edgar had been so little remarkable in appearance that this was the first fact about him which Harry had noticed. Harry, however, had found himself looking back at Edgar, unable to account for the interest he felt in the unknown. Rhoda, whom he had asked, knew no more about the man than he did, and had been indifferent; but Harry was definitely curious. If Edgar had been nearer he would have found himself directly addressed; but as it was the exchanged glance already mentioned was the only communication to pass between the two men. The glance had originated in a most singular impression which formed in Harry's mind. When Monty had moved forward to great old Dalrymple, who was some sort of artist, Harry had felt his usual dislike of the man, based upon the feeling that Dalrymple carried with him an air of stale drink and unsuccess. But he had looked past the old man to the unknown girl who seemed to be his companion; and instantly there shot through him that strong sexual interest which Harry was in the habit of calling "love." He was a strong young man, very sufficiently sensual, and his notions of love were made accordingly. It was a quick impulse, and his first thought after receiving it and deciding that he must know the stranger was the realisation that what he had desired Monty also would desire. And then, ignoring all the others present, he had sharply sensed danger. The glance at Edgar had been quite three-quarters of a challenge. The flashing teeth had been bared, and the blue eyes had been hard. But there was something about Edgar which disarmed him. Hence the smile. This was not the first time Harry had been in love. He was attractive, and he was quickly attracted. He had self-assurance, and he knew how to give pleasure. To Rhoda Flower he was certainly the most attractive person in the world. It was to her that he continued quietly to talk while the stranger was being brought forward to the group round the fireplace. He was teasing Rhoda, and gave no further sign of interest in the other girl; but he knew when she was near. He turned his head and looked at her. He looked from near at hand at the soft, beautifully moulded cheeks and the impetuous mouth and the clear blue eyes; and a very faint additional colour came into his face. Not knowing that Edgar was watching him, he was perfectly aware of the girl's grace and beauty. The curve of her neck and breast and shoulder seemed always to have been known and entrancing to him. With Harry it was love at first sight. "... Greenlees--Miss Quin," said Monty, leading the stranger from one to the other of his older friends, and making her acquainted with them all. The smoke-filled atmosphere seemed to come down like a cloud against which she stood fresh and lovely. All the vehemences of colour about him were softened. For that instant Harry saw nothing but the stranger, felt nothing but her hand. He found Miss Quin adorable. She was a reality, a sweet and wayward reality, like a flash of scarlet; and his one desire was to feel her soft hair against his cheek, her cool shoulder, her surrendered lips. The imagination of these contacts was intense. Into Harry's expression of light spirits crept something ever so slightly heavier. He was serious. To him the senses were a cause of seriousness, a cause of the complete oblivion of all that was comic or whimsical. From behind him came the voice of the young artist, Amy Roberts. "Hullo, Patricia," she said in greeting. Patricia! Patricia Quin. So that was the stranger's name. Harry's faint flush subsided. He cooled. The vision had passed. The quick physical imagining was for the present gone, no longer an eager craving. He must talk to her, see her, be with her; but in a few minutes, quite easily and simply. What lay in the future was something which stretched much farther than his immediate vision. To Harry it beckoned as irresistible adventure. ii The party swayed and engulfed Patricia. She was among all the others, and talking or listening, extraordinarily delighted with all this sound and colour. To her, whose first party of the kind it was, such a brimming claim to the senses had no shortcomings. It was all new and glorious and intoxicating. She felt herself a queen. Wherever she looked she found the strong colour and sensation for which she had pined. It was the first party, and a landmark. Compared with her days and the unattractive dinginess of her own rooms, Monty's home was all that was rich and desirable. At two-and-twenty, when one is starving for colour, a glut of it is like a feast. She was so happy, like a child at its first theatre, that she sat there spell-bound. It could not have occurred to her to think these people sophisticated; they were all so kind, she thought to herself, so kind and generous and interesting. Her heart went out to them all. It was as though she cast her own warm affectionateness upon the party. Her radiance increased with each instant. The corners of her mouth went up; her sweet, child-like laugh melted into the general laughter. All this light and colour and sound was superb. It was vivacity and richness, music and poetry, an unequalled stimulant to gaiety and the senses. It was life as she had dreamt of it. There was a spice of daring in such contact with the unknown and the exciting, and daring was her ideal. It was lovely.... She was in a beautiful dream of delight. Even Patricia at last began to look, beaming in her happiness, from one face to the other. They were all faces that interested her. They all had a cast--not of dignity or wisdom, but of something which she thought of as enlightenment. There was a quality about them to which she was unaccustomed, and she exalted it. She was prepared to find all knowledge and emotion in the faces, and she found it. The tones of the voices charmed her; the little jokes which she did not understand, and the fragments of criticism which belonged to another world of interests and consciousness, were all a part of the magic and delight of the evening. She set herself to look round the studio, sitting close to Amy Roberts, as a child might have done, while Amy, to whom all this sort of thing was becoming almost as commonplace as she pretended to Patricia that it already was, preserved an air of most distinguished semi-boredom. Amy, herself an artist, told her the names of those present, and sometimes, if she knew it, something about the people. Patricia from time to time glanced aside at Amy's fair bobbed hair and her white face and light lashes and eyebrows and dissatisfied mouth; and thought how nice Amy was, and how clever, and how she wished Amy had a sense of humour of the same kind as her own. "That's Rhoda Flower--that dark girl. She's a dress-designer. Not much good, as you can see from her dress. And those two over on the right, who're so fond of each other and think each other perfect...." "I know. They're engaged," guessed Patricia, laughing. "More than that. They're _married_. And happy. The only married people I know who _are_ happy. And how it is that Olivia has brought herself to leave the babies this evening I can't understand. They must have got a nurse. So I suppose Peter's been making some money, for a change. Olivia and Peter Stephens, they are. They've been married three years, and they've got two babies. They're still devoted to each other." "Odd!" joked Patricia, with archly raised brows. She had no notion of the truth of her comment in the present company, or of the underlying cynicism which an unfriendly hearer might read into it. Amy looked side-ways at her friend. She was puzzled, as the sophisticated always are puzzled by a remark made with nonsensical humour and without consciousness of its implications. "It is," she agreed drily. "Then there's somebody who _isn't_ devoted to her husband--Blanche Tallentyre. And with good reason. That white woman with the salmon lips." "Is she unhappy?" Patricia's face clouded. She imagined a tragedy, and she still passionately desired happy endings to all stories. She scanned Mrs. Tallentyre's face, and saw the hard lines at the lips, and the thin cheeks, and how tight her skin was across the cheek bones; and her heart felt soft towards one to whom love had been cruel. Now that she knew this of Blanche Tallentyre she could notice the hunger in Blanche's face, and the thinness of her bare arms, and the cup at the base of her throat. She could imagine sleepless, tearless sorrow. So there was one at least here who, in spite of all the thrill of it, was unhappy. "Not _too_ unhappy," said Amy. "Hush. I'll tell you later. Not now." They paused, Patricia looking childishly wise in an effort to disguise her faint distaste for this hint at an only dimly-realised form of ugliness; and both stared valiantly round at the others, so mysterious to Patricia, and so fascinating in their mysteriousness. "Jack Penton's here," proceeded Amy. "Somewhere. Of course, not when he's.... Oh, there you are, Jack. You know Patricia, don't you? Who's that man at the back? Behind Charlotte Hastings. That quiet man." Patricia looked quickly at Jack Penton, whom she had met before. He was a dark, clean-shaven, commonplace-looking young man with a rasping voice; but he was a good dancer, and she thought him, if not clever, at least intelligent and worthy of some other girl's love. There was cameraderie, but no love, in Amy's manner to the boy; and something very similar, upon the surface, in his manner to Amy; but to Patricia it was agreeable to see their faces near together. But then Patricia was a sentimentalist, and saw and imagined all sorts of things that never existed. Jack wrinkled his brow in the effort to recall a name half-forgotten. "Er--I _think_ his name's Rayne, or Mayne," he huskily reported. "That's it: Edgar Mayne. He's something in the city. Rather an _old_ bird, don't you think? He's a friend of Monty's. Somebody told me he was clever, but you never know with that sort of chap." "He looks very nice," whispered Patricia. "But rather stern. I don't think he likes this kind of thing. He looks disapproving. Oh, I wish he liked it." Again came that incredulous stare from Amy which convicted Patricia of a naïveté. Patricia stiffened a little, and became more guarded. Some vanity in her cried out against criticism. It was the one thing she could not bear. "Just there, on the right, is Felix Brow," proceeded Amy. "_Not_..." Patricia began in amazement. Suddenly, as they sat thus absorbed, there came an interruption. "Can't I help?" breathed an eager voice. "I can tell you all sorts of things you don't know--about everybody. Who they married, and why they separated, and who they're living with. I'm really an expert guide." They all looked up, and saw Harry Greenlees, whose face was so lowered to Patricia's that it was almost level with her own. It was so close, too, that she could see the warm colour under his skin, and the crisp hairs of his moustache, and the curl of his lips as they parted in a smile of entreaty. Seen near at hand, Harry's face had all the additional attractiveness which health gives to good featured. His vigour was manifest. There was a pleading in his eyes that was almost irresistible. It was the pleading of an ideally masterful lover who would not understand a refusal and so would not accept it. Patricia looked, and held back her own head until the curve of her cheek was lengthened and made even more beautiful than before. She was smiling, and when she smiled one beheld such a picture of happiness that one became quite naturally intrigued and marvelling. To Harry the picture was an intoxication. "You may tell me everything," said Patricia, with assurance equal to his own. "But first of all tell me who _you_ are." He took a seat upon the floor by her side, clasping his knees, and fixing his attention upon the two plump little hands which were clasped in Patricia's lap. "I am the most marvellous and unfortunate of men," he said. "Unfortunate, at least, until this very minute. My name is Harry Greenlees...." iii To Patricia it was all as delicious as a fairy tale. She was not unused to admiration, for her beauty was of the kind to draw men; but the admiration of the men she had known had been too easily won to possess any lasting value. She had become regal and fastidious, accepting homage even while she despised those by whom it was offered. And who were these men, after all? They were men she had met at local dances, or in the office in which she had not very competently or devotedly worked. A few she had met at the homes of acquaintances, a few at the seaside hotels at which she and her uncle had stayed from summer holiday to summer holiday. They had been clerks or young school-masters or inferior stragglers in one or other of the professions. All, apart from the admiration they offered and the fact that they were more or less organically sound males, had failed to interest a lively intelligence and an impatient spirit. But now that her uncle, like her father and mother, was dead; and now that, having lost her situation and determined upon a Career for Herself, Patricia was in new lodgings and facing life upon a new footing, the case was altered. Old Dalrymple, whom she had met several times, and who had pleased her with his rather stale compliments and the still-unpricked bubble of his exaggerated tales of acquaintance with the great, had brought her to Monty's. He had been proud to do it. Partly he had an old man's rather morbid sentimental feeling towards her, which played with the pretence that it was paternal; and partly he had the knowledge that Patricia was a creditable companion. So he had brought her here on this occasion, and Patricia, revelling in the newness of her delight, had forgotten him. She was already in a hitherto-untasted heaven. And this ardent young man at her feet, who shone with admiration so confident and encroaching as almost to excite her, was a new type to Patricia. She had always been so much quicker-witted than her followers that she had discouraged them in turn. She was still engaged in battling with Harry's wit, and thinking it exceedingly nimble and daring and charming. She was more and more charmed each minute, partly with Harry, partly with herself for so charming him. He told her about all the different men and women who were before her, what they did in order to live, and why they were present; and as she skipped quickly with her eyes and brain from one to the other he made up a great deal of nonsense about their private lives which diverted Patricia extraordinarily, while Amy listened with disapproval to the whole catalogue. "Stuff!" she at last interrupted. "There's not a word of truth in it, Patricia." "I know!" bubbled Patricia. "Don't you see, that's what's so nice!" Her whole face was alight as she spoke. Amy's objection seemed to Patricia to show her so very pedestrian in standard and judgment. "Patricia understands me," said Harry, unchecked in his use of her Christian name. "She's the first person to understand me. Do you know, I've been looking all over the world for you--for thirty weary years." He beamed whimsically, handsomer in Patricia's eyes each instant. "I wonder how many times you've said that," snapped Amy, who was impervious. "A million times, and never meant it until now." Harry's smile showed his big white teeth, and long lashes shaded his eyes; and his big frame was so firm and manifest that Patricia, in laughing as she did with an exultancy that almost held tears, was full also of happiness in the enjoyment of his manly graces. "I understand everything," she announced, confidingly; and mystically believed it. "Yes, but he doesn't think so," warned Amy, in grave alarm. "Or he wouldn't be telling lies at such a rate. It isn't _true_ that Dolly Fletcher's the daughter of a Russian prince and a charwoman." "Oh, but wouldn't it be nice if she was!" cried Patricia. "Exactly," agreed Harry, and proceeded to embroider his legend. "You see the short nose of the Russian of high caste, and hear the accent of the London back street. Notice the powder, the scent, the gold chain; the fur edging to her frock. You can imagine snow on her shoes and a pail in her hand. You can imagine waves of dirty water slopping just under the edge of the bed, and silk underclothing, and cosmetics, and a bath on the first Sunday of the Month--as a rarefied sensual indulgence." "She does look dirty," admitted Amy, scrutinizing Dolly. "It's her skin. But she's a very decent sort." This was said defiantly, while Patricia wondered. How strange! It was the first flaw that she had found in her handsome new friend, and it was unwelcome. She wished he had not spoken in that way. It troubled her. "Tell us what you know about Mr. Mayne," said Patricia, to change this topic and to conceal her distress. It continued for a moment or two, nevertheless, as an undercurrent to her thoughts, and was still unpleasant. Personal uncleanliness was abhorrent to her; but the joking suggestion of it was equally abhorrent. It was an ugliness. "Mayne? Who's he? Oh, is _that_ Mayne? Really!" Harry seemed for a moment to be lost in thought. "How astonishing. Edgar Mayne. I didn't know who it was. Well, Mayne's a peculiar fellow, as I don't mind telling you." "Is he married?" demanded Amy impatiently. "If you don't know anything about him, say so. Don't make it up. If you play any tricks on us about the man I shall go across and ask him myself." "No, this is true," said Harry, reflectively. As he spoke he looked again at Edgar, who was talking to Rhoda Flower and listening calmly to her chatter. "He's a man who started as a bootblack or something...." "Lie number one," commented Amy. "Take care!" "Well, an office boy. And he got to be a ledger clerk. And he became an accountant. And then manager. And then partner. No, Amy, he's not married, as far as I know. And instead of marrying he's stuck to work and he's just bought a newspaper of some sort. So I suppose he's presently going into Parliament, and intends to be in the Cabinet in five years. He'll attack the Government in his paper until he's offered a job; and then they'll give him an Under-Secretaryship. Then he'll push out the old chap above him, and become a Minister. And there you are." "Very nice. He's rich, then?" Amy was as sharp and persistent as the claws of a playing kitten. "I s'pose so. I don't know. He's the industrious apprentice." Unperceived by his hearers, Harry was sneering a little, as one always does at industriousness, with the suggestion that it is a common vice, whereas it is a chimera. "What's the paper he's bought?" asked Jack Penton. "If it's a daily he'll burn his fingers. I thought he was in the City." "I don't know what the paper is." Harry's motion towards Jack, however graceful and even consciously charming, showed that he was busy with his more honest thoughts. They became vocal, and his voice, hitherto so ingratiatingly warm, had lost all quality. It was merely cautious and speculative. "I wonder if he'd give me the job of Sports Editor on it," Harry said. "Take it," jeered Amy. "Take it. That's the sort of thing you do, isn't it?" Harry smiled again, altogether recovered, and once again the teasing comrade he had been. It was a most welcome return. "I will," he assured them. "You may regard it as taken. I'll just tell Mayne about it before he goes." Patricia listened still, the colour deeper in her cheeks as the result of so much excitement and new knowledge. She was quite fascinated by Harry, as she was fascinated by this whole unfamiliar scene. She could hardly keep still, so delighted was she to be in this realm of men and women who "did" things, whose names and qualities and actions were known and public. Such gossip as she had heard was quite new to her. Such assurance as Harry had shown in sketching the possible future of Mr. Mayne argued an inside knowledge of the world of politics and affairs and finance and wide-reaching action involving the fortunes of other people which no man whom she had hitherto known had possessed or pretended to possess. A gentle glance of encouragement, almost shy, but wholly attractive, passed between Patricia and Harry. Upon his side it was prolonged. He gave a little laugh. "Oh, it's a great life!" he ejaculated, as though he had known her thoughts. How Patricia agreed with him! "It's a _great_ life!" she emphatically repeated, kindled to enthusiasm at having her vaguer thoughts crystallised. And she felt how she and Harry appreciated it in common as a great life, and was again pleased and excited, so that she wanted to clap her hands with joy. The little group of four, of which Patricia and Harry were the centre, was observed by all; and if Patricia was in any degree aware of this the knowledge can only have added to her conviction of the general splendid entertainingness of life. She was quite carried out of herself and into the spirit of the hour. iv By this time the first half of the evening was coming to an end. Monty, who had talked to all his guests, had observed that it was ten o'clock; and it was now that a screen at one end of the studio was removed, allowing the buffet for the first time to reveal its attractions. The visitors spread--all except our party of four;--and the most remarkable collection of drinks and foodstuffs was being relished by all. For some moments Patricia and her friends knew nothing of what was going forward; but at last Harry and Jack rose abruptly from their places to secure refreshment for their charmers. No sooner had they joined the group at the buffet than Monty and Edgar approached the two girls, the former bearing a tray upon which were glasses large and small, and the latter a couple of piled plates. It was Monty's habit to make his guests serve themselves, and he had only relaxed his rule because he was interested in Patricia and her youthful delight. Upon his heels as he thus approached hung Dalrymple, who saw an opportunity of reclaiming his charge. Patricia had forgotten Dalrymple--characteristically,--although but for him she would never have known the joys of the evening at all. She was charmed at being thus waited upon, and accepted champagne cup and some of Edgar's more nourishing products with the most urbane pleasure. To Edgar, who came second in the procession, she was especially friendly, for she had been absorbed by Harry's tale of his history. She had time only to thank him and to catch his grave smile, and then Dalrymple, rather officiously, brought himself to her notice. "Is Patricia having a good time?" the old man asked, with his smirking air of hints and mystery. "That's right. That's right. Is there room here for an old man?" Amy looked at him with aversion as he squeezed into their seat beside Patricia, and her expression was suspicious and scornful. But Patricia had no criticism. It was nothing to her that his eyes were protruding and gooseberry-like, and the fringe of his moustache above the mouth browned with the stains of food and much drink. She was in a mood to welcome all who contributed to this party. She felt in a curious psychic way that it was peculiarly _her_ party; and the atmosphere of the place would have led her, in any case, to frank friendliness with all comers. She was transported, and hardly conscious of her own actions. The barbaric colours seemed to have mingled into a glorious harmony, and she was as much intoxicated by these colours and the sounds and associations of the evening as she could have been made by deep potations. The glass in her hand was only half-empty; but she was drunk with happiness, her cheeks flushed, her eyes brimming with laughter, her lips parted in eager sportiveness. Danger she could not foresee. She lived in the moment, and knew that for her it was good. She was unaware of Dalrymple's singular glance, with its old man's ugliness and preoccupation. She could not read the expression upon Monty's face when he looked at her over the glass-laden tray. She knew nothing of Amy's grave distrust and even suspicion. She only felt that she had never been so happy. Upon an impulse she thrust her glass into Dalrymple's hand, and rose and went straight to Edgar. It was extraordinary that she should feel no embarrassment; but Patricia did not reflect. She was acting upon impulse, and she exalted impulse, as modern young women are in the habit of doing. Moreover, all who knew Edgar trusted him. "I wanted to ask you..." began Patricia, and then faltered. Edgar's face was blurred to her vision by the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. She blinked them away, and took new courage from his expression. This man, so different from the others there, was one of those, she felt, who could always be reached by the truth. He was so controlled, so grave, that he might have terrified her in other circumstances; but in this mood of exaltation Patricia was carried beyond fear. "I wanted to ask you..." she stammered again. "They say... Mr. Greenlees says you've just bought a newspaper.... And will you _please_ make him Sports Editor! I don't think he means really to ask you; but he said he would; and I think he wants to be.... If only you could, it would be so awfully nice.... He's really..." And then Patricia faltered. She was at the end of her knowledge. Her cheeks flushed. For the first time she was conscious of grave discomfort. She would have cancelled all she had said if it had been possible; but it was too late, and her trembling smile of anxiety was the most beautiful thing Edgar had seen for many days. Nevertheless, he shook his head. "Such an advocate would secure a man _any_ position," he said. "But only if it were available. It is quite true that I've bought a paper; but _what_ a paper! Miss Quin--I hardly like to tell you what paper it is. I have only bought it because the Editor is a man I love and admire, and because the paper would otherwise die. It is called 'The Antiquarian's Gazette,' You see, we could only have some very antique sports in such a paper." "Couldn't you... couldn't you... bring it up-to-date?" begged Patricia. Edgar shook his head with so concerned an expression that she could hardly detect his lurking smile. "I'm afraid..." he said. "No." Patricia was rueful. "No, I see it wouldn't do. I'm sorry, though." Her thoughts ran on apace. "Did you mean," she asked suddenly, "that the editor would have... he wouldn't have had anything to live on?" "Well, he's a very proud old gentleman," admitted Edgar. "And then you've bought it to..." "More or less," he agreed. "It's a very special case, of course." "Well, I think you're splendid," Patricia cried. "But then, everything ..." She paused, almost overcome. "To-night, everything's splendid." And with that she began quite suddenly to cry, large tears rolling down her cheeks, while Edgar took one of her half-raised hands and held it in his own until she should have regained self-control. It came in a moment, and her friendly smile, so almost roguish, pierced the tears and obliterated them. Edgar smiled also, in relief and friendship. "All right?" he questioned, very quietly. Patricia's other hand was for the lightest instant upon his, and she was free. She nodded reassuringly, and with her handkerchief caused two tears which stood upon her cheeks to vanish. She was like a little girl; but she had made another friend, for nobody could have withstood behaviour as free from artifice and so full of naïve emotion. The episode was finished; but its consequences could never be finished, for a human relation had been established, and these things are undying. v With the arrival and circulation of the drinks, Monty's party took a new turn. The noise at first increased, into such a sustained and stentorian buzzing that the sounds would have stunned a newcomer unprepared for such celebrations; but presently the noise so died that the steady downpour of rain could be heard upon the studio's glass roof. The cup was a strong one, mixed by a cunning hand; liqueurs followed; tinklings and small clashes were audible. The party grew quieter. A heaviness began to show in its members. The pallor of some of the guests increased, and with the now great heat of the poorly-ventilated room there came closeness and some discomfort. Only Dalrymple and Frederick Tallentyre (the husband of Blanche--a swarthy man with a mass of dark hair) remained at the buffet; and Dalrymple began to laugh quietly, showing his old yellow teeth. Patricia looked once at her escort, and if she also had not had the first Benedictine of her life she would have been shocked. As it was she sat still beside Amy, her lips a little swollen and her eyes glowing; almost noisy, but no longer happy as she had been. Any outbreak of noise and dancing would have carried her with it; but these people, with their increasingly white puffy faces and the seriousness which began to overtake most of those present, were no longer adorable. They fell into a monotony of familiar dummies. Even Harry, eager though he was, she saw with less intensity of vision. He was still delightful and gay; but she was surfeited with emotion. Not at all intoxicated, but over-tired, she was now ready for the end of the evening. She even observed the first departure with some gladness. Departures began and continued. "I say... I'm sorry..." Harry was murmuring in Patricia's ear. His hand was upon her wrist. "I say... we must meet again, you know." "Of _course_," she agreed, her face clear and open and full of the sweet candour she was feeling. "How... when can I see you?" He was hot and urgent. "I'm awfully sorry, but I promised to see young Rhoda home. But... I... er.... When, I mean... when can I see you. I must.... It's got to be soon, you know." Oh, they were of one mind upon that! Dalrymple was now alone at the buffet, a benign smile upon his aged face, and his attitude that of one by the world forgotten. "Any time. Let me know," said Patricia, very gravely, and without coquetry. "But how can I find you?" "Amy.... Any way, it's..." She was giving him her address when Rhoda appeared against the doorway, all muffled in furs, with her expression one of impatience ill-concealed. Harry shook Patricia's wrist, and made off to the door. He turned as he reached it, and kissed his hand. Patricia, with her head back and her eyes suddenly sombre, waved in return. He was gone. She turned to Amy, who was frowning at Jack Penton. Amy sharply whispered: "How are you going to get home?" As if in answer, Dalrymple approached rather lurchingly from the buffet. He smiled ingratiatingly upon the reduced company. "Where's... where's my lit... little... companion?" he said, coming towards them. It was clear that although he could control his movements he was no longer quite sober. "No," said Amy, in Patricia's ear. "I wonder if I might give you a lift in my car, Miss Quin." The voice was that of Edgar. It was so quiet as to be almost an undertone. "Oh, _do_." Amy was the one to answer, for Patricia was dazed. "Get your coat, then. Will you take her?" Edgar supplemented his instruction with the request to Amy; and the two girls moved quickly away. They saw no more of Dalrymple. By the time they were dressed Edgar was waiting in the hall; and they stood in the doorway together while he started the engine of his car. Two great lights illumined the gravel sweep in front of Monty's house. Then Patricia was in a warm, soft-lighted vehicle, and they were in motion. She pressed back in her place, her head throbbing and
mingles with the moss, and air-plants nestle in the armpits of the cypresses, and orchids bloom on dead limbs; while, from the morass below, extraordinary parasitic things, full of snaky beauty, climb and twine and interwreathe, often to lose their strangling hold at last, and fall back in spiral coils. Then also, to right and left, broad bands of translucent green begin to edge the river surface,--the nations of the water-lilies uprearing their perfumed heads,--some whiter than moon-light, some yellower than gold. All start and tremble at our passing, as though suddenly aroused from slumber; and I long watch them nodding in our wake, more and more drowsily, slowly settling down to dream again. Rarely there comes a break in the solid leagues of forest-wall,--a deep space filled with celestial color, a golden green, the green of orange-groves,--making the wilder tints of nature turn spectral by contrast. These indeed are the veritable Gardens of Hesperides, and theirs the bright fruit of Greek legend,--those Apples of Gold the Demigod sought in mythic islands of the Western Sea,--that Hippomenes, hard-pressed in the race of love, cast before the flying feet of Atalanta. For the orange hath its mythology. Little frogs, metallically bright as the lily-leaves on which they sit, chant in chorus; butterflies flutter on vermilion wing from bank to bank; sometimes the nose of an alligator furrows the river. The palmettos, heretofore rare, begin to multiply; they assemble in troops, in ranks, in legions. And other gracious forms appear,--true palms,--satin-skinned and wonderfully tall. They hold themselves aloof from the cypresses and the oaks; they don no draperies of moss--proudly majestic in the elegance of their naked beauty. They approach the flood, yet shrink from it with feminine timidity; if the treacherous soil yield beneath their feet, still, by some miracle of poise, they save themselves from fall. Then wonderful indeed is the suppleness of their curves; the neck of the ostrich, the body of the serpent, seem less lithely beautiful. Theirs is never the admirable but inflexible stature of the often to lose their strangling hold at last, and fall back in spiral coils. Then also, to right and left, broad bands of translucent green begin to edge the river surface,--the nations of the water-lilies uprearing their perfumed heads,--some whiter than moon-light, some yellower than gold. All start and tremble at our passing, as though suddenly aroused from slumber; and I long watch them nodding in our wake, more and more drowsily, slowly settling down to dream again. Rarely there comes a break in the solid leagues of forest-wall,--a deep space filled with celestial color, a golden green, the green of orange-groves,--making the wilder tints of nature turn spectral by contrast. These indeed are the veritable Gardens of Hesperides, and theirs the bright fruit of Greek legend,--those Apples of Gold the Demigod sought in mythic islands of the Western Sea,--that Hippomenes, hard-pressed in the race of love, cast before the flying feet of Atalanta. For the orange hath its mythology. Little frogs, metallically bright as the lily-leaves on which they sit, chant in chorus; butterflies flutter on vermilion wing from bank to bank; sometimes the nose of an alligator furrows the river. The palmettos, heretofore rare, begin to multiply; they assemble in troops, in ranks, in legions. And other gracious forms appear,--true palms,--satin-skinned and wonderfully tall. They hold themselves aloof from the cypresses and the oaks; they don no draperies of moss--proudly majestic in the elegance of their naked beauty. They approach the flood, yet shrink from it with feminine timidity; if the treacherous soil yield beneath their feet, still, by some miracle of poise, they save themselves from fall. Then wonderful indeed is the suppleness of their curves; the neck of the ostrich, the body of the serpent, seem less lithely beautiful. Theirs is never the admirable but inflexible stature of the pine; the bodies of all are comely with indication; they balance as in a dance; they poise as in a ballet,--a fairy saraband of _coryphineæ_. What wonder that the comeliness of the palm should have been by ancient faith deemed divine; that, among all trees of earth, this should have been chosen as the symbol of light, of victory, of riches, of generation! Sacred to the sun, and to the goddess NIKÉ (whose appellation was _Dea Palmaris_),--emblem of immortality for the Orphic poets,--blessed also by the Christ and by him selected even as the token of salvation,--ancient truly is the right of the palm to reverence as divinest of trees. Yet not less ancient its claim to pre-eminence of beauty. Arab and Greek and Hebrew poets discovered in its shapeliness the most puissant comparison for human grace; the soft name Thamar signifies a palm; the charm of woman has been likened to the pliant symmetry of the tree by the bard of the Odyssey, by the wild authors of the Moallakat, and by the singer of the Song of Songs. Darkness comes without a moon; and the torch-fires of the Osceola are kindled to light our way through the wilderness. The night-journey becomes an astonishment, a revelation, an Apocalypse. Under the factitious illumination the banks, the roots, the stems, the creepers, the burdened boughs, the waving mosses, turn white as dead silver against the background of black sky; it is a Doresque landscape, abnormally fantastic and wan. Close to shore the relief is weirdly sharp; beyond, the heights of swamp forest rise dim and gray into the night, like shapes of vapor. There are no greens visible under this unearthly radiance; all is frosty-white or phantom gray; we seem to voyage not through a living forest, but through a world of ghosts. Forms grotesque as fetishes loom up on all sides; the cypresses in their tatters throng whitely to the black the night, while the woods ever display new terrors, new extravaganzas of ghastliness. As a traveler belated, who sings loudly in the darkness to give himself courage, the Osceola opens her iron throat, and shouts with all her voice of steam. And the deep forest laughs in scorn, and hurls back the shout with a thousand mockeries of echo,--a thousand phantom thunders; and the bitter triple cry of anguish follows us still over the sable flood. But the Fountain of Youth is not now far away; midnight is past; the trees lock arms overhead; and we glide through the Cypress Gates. Lulled by the monotonous throbbing of the machinery,--the systole and diastole of the steamer's heart,--I sank to sleep and dreamed; but the spectra of the woods filled all my dreams. It seemed to me that I was floating,--lying as in a canoe, and all alone,--down some dark and noiseless current,--between forests endless and vast,--under an unearthly light. White mosses drooped to sweep my face; phantoms of cypress put forth long hands to seize. Again I saw the writhing and the nodding of the palms: they elongated their bodies like serpents; they undulated quiveringly, as cobras before the snake-charmer. And all the moss-hung shapes of fear took life, and moved like living things,--slowly and monstrously, as polyps move. Then the vision changed and magnified; the river broadened Amazonianly; the forests became colossal,--preternatural,--world-shadowing at last,--meeting even over the miles of waters; and the sabals towered to the stars. And still I drifted with the mighty stream, feeling less than an insect in those ever-growing enormities; and a thin Voice like a wind came weirdly questioning: '_Ha! thou dreamer of dreams!--hast ever dreamed aught like unto this?--This is the Architecture of God!_' _May_ 6, 188- How divine the coming of the morning,--the coming of the Sun,--exorcising the shadowy terrors of the night with infinite restoration of color! I look upon the woods, and they are not the same: the palms have vanished; the cypresses have fled away; trees young and comely and brightly green replace them. A hand is laid upon my shoulder,--the hand of the gray Captain: 'Go forward, and see what you have never seen before.' Even as he speaks, our boat, turning sharply, steams out of the green water into--what can I call it?--a flood of fluid crystal,--a river of molten diamond,--a current of liquid light? 'It will be like this for eight miles,' observed the Captain. Eight miles!--eight miles of magic,--eight miles of glory! O the unspeakable beauty of it! It might be fifty feet in depth at times; yet every pebble, every vein of the water-grass blades, every atom of sparkling sand, is clearly visible as though viewed through sun-filled air; and but for the iridescent myriads of darting fish, the scintillations of jewel-color, we might well fancy our vessel floating low in air, like a balloon whose buoyancy is feeble. Water-grasses and slippery moss carpet much of the channel with a dark verdure that absorbs the light; the fish and the tortoises seem to avoid those sandy reaches left naked to the sun, as if fearful the great radiance would betray them, or as though unable to endure the force of the beams descending undimmed through all the translucent fathoms of the stream. It has no mystery this laughing torrent, save the mystery of its subterranean birth; it doffs all veils of shadow; the woods gradually withdraw from its banks; and the fires of the Southern sun affect not the delicious frigidity of its waves. Almost irresistible its fascination to the swimmer; one envies the fishes that shoot by like flashes of opal, even the reptiles that flee before the prow; a promise of strange joy? of electrical caress, seems to smile from those luminous deeps,--like the witchery of a Naiad, the blandishment of an Undine. And so we float at last into a great basin, dark with the darkness of profundities unfathomed by the sun;--the secret sources of the spring, the place of its mystic fountain-birth, and the end of our pilgrimage. Down, down, deep, there is a mighty quivering visible; but the surface remains unmoved; the giant gush expends its strength far beneath us. From what unilluminated caverns,--what subterranean lakes,--burst this prodigious flow? Go ask the gnomes! Man may never answer. This is the visible beginning indeed; but of the invisible beginning who may speak?--not even the eye of the Sun hath discerned it; the light of the universe hath never shone upon it.--Earth reveals much to the magicians of science; but the dim secret of her abysses she keeps forever. A TROPICAL INTERMEZZO _The broken memory of a tale told in the last hours of a summer's night to the old Mexican priest by a dying wanderer from the Spanish Americas. Much the father marvelled at the quaintness of the accent of the man? which was the quaintness of dead centuries_... Now the land of which I tell thee is a low land, where all things seem to have remained unchanged since the beginning of the world,--a winterless land where winds are warm and weak, so that the leaves are not moved by them,--a beshadowed land that ever seemeth to mourn with a great mourning. For it is one mighty wold, and the trees there be all hung with drooping plants and drooling vines, and dribbling mossy things that pend queerly from the uppermost branchings even to the crankling roots. And there be birds in that wold which do sing only when the moon shineth full,--and they have voices, like to monks,--and measured is their singing, and solemn, and of vasty sound,--and they are not at all afraid. But when the sun shineth there prevaileth such quiet as if some mighty witchcraft weighed upon the place; and all things drowse in the great green silence. Now on the night of which I tell thee, we had camped there; and it seemed to me that we might in sooth have voyaged beyond the boundaries of the world; for even the heavens were changed above us, and the stars were not the same; and I could not sleep for thinking of the strangeness of the land and of the sky. And about the third watch I rose and went out under those stars, and looked at them, and listened to the psalmody of the wonderful birds chanting in the night like friars. Then a curious desire to wander alone into the deep woods came upon me.--_En chica hora Dios obra_!--In that time I feared neither man nor devil; and our commander held me the most desperate in that desperate band; and I strode out of the camp without thought of peril. The grizzled sentry desired to question me;--I cursed him and passed on. And I was far away from the camp when the night grew pale, and the fire of the great strange Cross of stars, about which I have told thee, faded out, and I watched the edge of the East glow ruddy and ruddier with the redness of iron in a smithy; until the sun rose up, yellow like an orange is, with palm-leaves sharply limned against his face. Then I heard the Spanish trumpets sounding their call through the morning; but I did not desire to return. Whether it was the perfume of the flowers, or the odors of unknown spice-trees or some enchantment in the air, I could not tell thee; but I do remember that, as I wandered on, a sudden resolve came to me never to rejoin those comrades of mine. And a stranger feeling grew upon me like a weakness of heart,--like a great sorrow for I knew not what; and the fierceness of the life that I had lived passed away from me, and I was even as one about to weep. Wild doves whirred down from the trees to perch on my casque and armored shoulders; and I wondered that they suffered me to touch them with my hands, and were in no wise afraid. So day broadened and brightened above me; and it came to pass that I found myself following a path where the trunks of prodigious trees filed away like lines of pillars, reaching out of sight,--and their branches made groinings like work of arches above me, so that it was like a monstrous church; and the air was heavy with a perfume like incense. All about me blazed those birds which are not bigger than bees, but do seem to have been made by God out of all manner of jewels and colored fire; also there were apes in multitude, and reptiles beyond reckoning, and singing insects, and talking birds. Then I asked myself whether I were not in one of those lands old Moors in Spain told of,--lands near the sinking of the sun, where fountains of magical water are. And fancy begetting fancy, it came to pass that I found me dreaming of that which Juan Ponce de Leon sought. Thus dreaming as I went on, it appeared to me that the green dimnesses deepened, and the forest became loftier. And the trees now looked older than the deluge; and the stems of the things that coiled and climbed about them were enormous and gray; and the tatters of the pendent mosses were blanched as with the hoariness of ages beyond reckoning. Again I heard the trumpet sounding,--but so far off that the echo was not louder than the droning of the great flies; and I was gladdened by the fancy that it would soon have no power to reach mine ears. And all suddenly I found myself within a vast clear space,--ringed about by palms so lofty that their tops appeared to touch the sky, and their shadows darkened all within the circle of them. And there was a great silence awhile, broken only by the whispering of waters. My feet made no sound, so thick was the moss I trod upon; and from the circle of the palms on every side the ground sloped down to a great basin of shimmering water. So clear it was that I could perceive sparkles of gold in the sands below; and the water seemed forced upward in a mighty underflow from the centre of the basin, where there was a deep, dark place. And into the bright basin there trickled streamlets also from beneath the roots of the immense trees; and I became aware of a great subterrene murmuring, as if those waters--which are beneath the earth--were all seeking to burst their way up to the sun. Then, being foredone with heat and weariness, I doffed my armor and my apparel and plunged into the pool of the fountain. And I discovered that the brightness of the water had deluded me; for so deep was it that by diving I could not reach the bottom. Neither was the fountain tepid as are the slow river currents of that strange land, but of a pleasant frigidness,--like those waters that leap among the rocks of Castile. And I felt a new strength and a puissant joy, as one having long traveled with burning feet through some fevered and fiery land feeleth new life when the freshness of sea-winds striketh against his face, and the jocund brawling of the great billows smiteth his ears through the silence of desolation. And the joyousness I knew as a boy seemed to flame through all my blood again,--so that I sported in the luminous ripples and laughed aloud, and uttered shouts of glee; and high above me in the ancient trees wonderful birds mocked my shoutings and answered my laughter hoarsely, as with human voices. And when I provoked them further, they did imitate my speech till it seemed that a thousand echoes repeated me. And, having left the fount, no hunger nor weariness weighed upon me,--but I yielded unto a feeling of delicious drowsihead, and laid me down upon the moss to sleep as deeply as an infant sleepeth. Now, when I opened mine eyes again, I wondered greatly to behold a woman bending over me,--and presently I wondered even much more, for never until then had it been given me to look upon aught so comely. Begirdled with flowers she was, but all ungarmented,--and lithe to see as the rib of a palmleaf is,--and so aureate of color that she seemed as one created of living gold. And her hair was long and sable as wing-feathers of ravens are, with shifting gleams of blue,--and was interwoven with curious white blossoms. And her eyes, for color like to her hair, I could never describe for thee,--that large they were, and limpid, and lustrous, and sweet-lidded! So gracious her stature and so wonderful the lissomeness of her, that, for the first time, I verily knew fear,--deeming it never possible that earthly being might be so goodly to the sight. Nor did the awe that was upon me pass away until I had seen her smile,--having dared to speak to her in my own tongue, which she understood not at all. But when I had made certain signs she brought me fruits fragrant and golden as her own skin; and as she bent over me again our lips met, and with the strange joy of it I felt even as one about to die,--for her mouth was-- ['Nay, my son,' said the priest, preventing him, 'dwell not upon such things. Already the hand of death is on thee; waste not these priceless moments in speech of vanity,--rather confess thee speedily that I may absolve thee from thy grievous sin.'] So be it, _padre mio_, I will speak to thee only of that which a confessor should know. But I may surely tell thee those were the happiest of my years; for in that low dim land even Earth and Heaven seemed to kiss; and never did other mortal feel the joy I knew of, love that wearies never and youth that passeth never away. Verily, it was the Eden-garden, the Paradise of Eve. Fruits succulent and perfume were our food,--the moss, springy and ever cool, formed our bed, made odorous with flowers; and for night-lamps we prisoned those wondrous flies that sparkle through darkness like falling stars. Never a cloud or tempest,--no fierce rain nor parching heat, but spring everlasting, filled with scent of undying flowers, and perpetual laughter of waters, and piping of silver-throated birds. Rarely did we wander far from that murmuring hollow. My cuirass, and casque, and good sword of Seville, I allowed to rust away; my garments fell into dust; but neither weapon nor garment were needed where all was drowsy joy and unchanging warmth. Once she whispered to me in my own tongue, which she had learned with marvelous ease, though I, indeed, never could acquire hers: 'Dost know, _Querido mio_, here one may never grow old?' Then only I spake to her about that fountain which Juan Ponce de Leon sought, and told her the marvels related of it, and questioned her curiously about it. But she smiled, and pressed her pliant golden fingers upon my lips, and would not suffer me to ask more,--neither could I at any time after find heart to beseech her further regarding matters she was not fain to converse of. Yet ever and anon she bade me well beware that I should not trust myself to stray alone into the deep dimness beyond the dale of the fountains: '_Lest the Shadows lay hold upon thee_,' she said. And I laughed low at her words, never discerning that the Shadows whereof she spake were those that Age and Death cast athwart the sunshine of the world. ['Nay, nay, my son,' again spoke the priest; 'tell me not of Shadows, but of thy great sins only; for the night waneth, and thine hour is not far off.'] Be not fearful, father; I may not die before I have told thee all.... I have spoken of our happiness; now must I tell thee of our torment--the strangest thing of all? Dost remember what I related to thee about the sound of the trumpet summoning me? Now was it not a ghostly thing that I should hear every midnight that same summons,--not faintly as before, but loud and long--once? Night after night, ever at the same hour, and ever with the same sonority, even when lying in her arms, I heard it--as a voice of brass, rolling through the world. And whensoever that cursed sound came to us, she trembled in the darkness, and linked her arms more tightly about me, and wept, and would not be comforted till I had many times promised that I should not forsake her. And through all those years I heard that trumpet-call--years, said I?--nay, _centuries_ (since in that place there is not any time nor any age)--I heard it through long centuries after all my comrades had been laid within their graves. [And the stranger gazed with strange inquiry into the priest's face; but he crossed himself silently, and spoke no word.] And nightly I strove to shut out the sound from my ears and could not; and nightly the torment of hearing it ever increased like a torment of hell--_ay de mit_ nightly, for uncounted generations of years! So that in time a great fury would seize me whenever the cursed echoes came; and, one dark hour, when she seemed to hear it not, and slept deeply, I sought my rusted blade, and betook me toward the sound,--beyond the dale of fountains--into the further dimness of swaying mosses,--whither, meseems, the low land trendeth southward and toward those wan wastes which are not land nor water, yet which do quake to a great and constant roaring as of waves in wrath. [A moment the voice of the aged man failed him, and his frame quivered as in the beginning of agony.] Now I feel, padre, that but little time is allotted me to speak. I may never recount to thee my wanderings, and they, indeed, are of small moment.--Enough to tell thee that I never again could find the path to the fountains and to her, so that she became lost to me. And when I found myself again among men, lo! the whole world was changed, and the Spaniards I met spake not the tongue of my time, and they mocked the quaintness of my ways and jibed at the fashion of my speech. And my tale I dared tell to none, through fear of being confined with madmen, save to thee alone, and for this purpose only I summoned thee. Surely had I lived much in this new age of thine men must have deemed me bereft of reason, seeing that my words and ways were not like unto theirs; but I have passed my years in the morasses of unknown tropics, with the python and the cayman,--and in the dark remoteness of forests inhabited by monstrous things,--and in forgotten ruins of dead Indian cities,--and by shores of strange rivers that have no names,--until my hair whitened and my limbs were withered and my great strength was utterly spent in looking for her. 'Verily, my son,' spake the confessor, 'any save a priest might well deem thee mad,--though thy speech and thy story be not of to-day. Yet I do believe thy tale. Awesome it is and strange; but the traditions of the Holy Church contain things that are not less strange: witness the legend of the Blessed Seven of Ephesus, whose lives were three hundred and sixty years preserved that the heresy concerning the resurrection of the flesh might be confounded forever. Even in some such way hath the Lord preserved thee through the centuries for this thine hour of repentance. Commend, therefore, thy soul to God, repentingly, and banish utterly from thee that evil spirit who still tempts thee in the semblance of woman.' 'Repent!' wonderingly spake the wanderer, whose great black eyes flamed up again as with the fires of his youth; 'I do not repent, I shall never repent,--nor did I summon thee hither that thou shouldst seek to stir me to any repentance.--Nay! more than mine own soul I love her,--unutterably, unswervingly, everlastingly! Aye! greater a thousand fold is my love of her than is thy hope of heaven, thy dread of death, thy fear of hell.--Repent--beyond all time shall I love her, through eternity of eternities,--aye! as thou wouldst say, even _por los siglos de los siglos_.' Kneeling devoutly, the confessor covered his face with his hands, and prayed even as he had never prayed before. When he lifted his eyes again, lo! the soul had passed away unshriven;--but there was such a smile upon the dead face that the priest marveled, and murmured, with his lips: '_Surely he hath found Her at last_!'--Faintly, with the coming of the dawn, a warm south wind moved the curtains, and bare into the chamber rich scent of magnolia and of jessamine and of those fair blossoms whose odor evoketh beloved memory of long-dead bridal-mornings,--until it seemed that a weird sweet Presence invisible had entered, all silently, and stood there even as a Watcher standeth. And all the East brightened;--and, touched by the yellow magic of the sun, the vapors above the place of his rising formed themselves into a Fountain of Gold. A NAME IN THE PLAZA _June_ 3, 18-- I Sometimes, in that Gloaming that divides deep sleep from the awakening,--when out of the world of wavering memories the first thin fancies begin to soar, like neuroptera, rising on diaphanous wing from a waste of marsh-grasses,--there suddenly comes an old, old longing that stings thought into nervous activity with a sharp pain. The impression in the first moment of wakefulness might be likened to a sense of nostalgia,--but the nostalgia which is rather a world-sickness than a homesickness; there is something in it also resembling the vain regret for what has been left perhaps twenty-years' journey behind us, and has now become a tropical remembrance because we have traveled so far toward the Northern Circle of life. Yet the longing I refer to is more puissant and more subtle than these definable feelings are;--it has almost the force of an impulse; it has no real affinity with the recognizable Past; its visions are archipelagoes which never loomed for us over the heaving of any remembered seas; it is like an unutterable wish to flee away from the Present into the Unknown,--a beautiful unknown, radiant with impossible luminosities of azure and sun-gold! I do not know how to account for this impulse,--unless as an unexplained Something in Man corresponding to the instinct of migration in lower forms of life--especially in those happy winged creatures privileged to follow the perfumed Summer round about the world. And I think it comes to us usually either with the first lukewarm burst of spring, or with the windy glories of autumn. Nevertheless, in the morning it came, out of season, and remained with me, while I watched from the balcony birds and ships alike fleeting tropicward with many-colored wings outspread, and thought of a tame crane at home,--with one wing hopelessly maimed,--that used to cry out bitterly to processions of his wild kindred sailing above the city roofs on their way to other skies. Why these longings for lands in which we shall never be?--why this desire for that azure into which we cannot soar?--whence our mysterious love for that tumultuous deep into whose emerald secrets we may never peer?--Can it be that through countless epochs of the immemorial phylogenesis of man,--through all those myriad changes suggested by the prenatal evolution of the human heart,--through all the slow marvelous transition from fish to mammal,--there have actually persisted impulses, desires, sensations, whereof the enigma may be fully interpreted by some new science only,--a future science of psychical dysteleology?... So musing, I found my way to the Plaza. Has it not often seemed to you that the more antiquated and the more unfamiliar an object or a place is, the more it appears at first sight to live,--to possess a sort of inner being, a fetish-spirit, a soul? I thought that morning the ancient Plaza had such a soul, and that it spoke to me in its mysterious dumb way, as if saying: 'Come look at me, because I am very, very old;--but do not look at the sulphur fountain which the Americans have made, nor at the monument they have built; for those are not of the centuries to which I belong.' So I entered, and idled awhile among the palms that threw spidery shadows under the noon-light; and I deciphered the old inscription upon the coquina pillar:--'PLAZA DE LA CONSTITUCION...;'--paying little heed to the song of the artesian spring, and scarcely vouchsafing a furtive glance to the newer monument, which I saw was not artistic, not imposing, but naïve and almost cumbrous. Suddenly my indifferent eye noted a graven word which revealed that the newer structure had been erected by Love, and for Love's sake only. And then, all unexpectedly, the very artlessness of the monument touched me as with a voiceless reproach,--touched me like the artlessness of a face in tears: so much of tender pain revealed itself through the simplicity of the chiseled words, OUR DEAD,--through the commonplaceness of the inscription, '_Erected by the Ladies' Memorial Association_.' Then I walked around the monument, perusing on each of its white faces the roll-call of the dead,--sons, brothers, lovers,--the names of your darlings, gentle women of Saint Augustine! I read them every one; carefully spelling out many a Spanish name of Andalusian origin: sonorous appellations holding in their syllables etymological suggestions of Arabian ancestry--names swarthy and beautiful as an Oriental face might be. And all the while, --dominating the perfume of blossoms, and the keen sweet scent of aromatic grasses,--the sulphureous smell of the Volcanic spring came to me grimly through the warm aureate air,--like an odor of battles! There was a name upon that white stone which affected me in a singular way,--a name that by contrast with those dark Spanish ones seemed fair, blonde as gold! In someplace--at some time, I had known that name.--But where?--but when? Even as a perfume may create for us the spectre of a vanished day, or as a melody may suddenly evoke for us the forgotten tone of some dear voice,--so may the sound or sight of a name momentarily revive for us all the faded colors of some memory-portrait so beautiful, so beloved, that we had become afraid to look at it, and had permitted innumerable spiders of Monotony to weave their tintless gauze before its face. But we have had experiences which are now so long dead and so profoundly sepultured in the Cemetery of Recollection that no mnemonic necromancy can lend them recognizable outline; they have become totally spiritualized, and reveal themselves only as faint wind-stirrings in the atmosphere of Thought. Surely the experience connected in some vague way with that blonde name must have belonged to these:--the memory _had_ been; for I knew the presence of its ghost; but viewless it obstinately remained. It pursued me through the amber afternoon. By some inexplicable mental process I discovered that it had been also associated with an idea of death, a melancholy fancy, at the time, that I had heard or had seen it before.--But when?--but where did I first learn that name?... Night came, but brought with it no answer to the enigma. I watched the moon,--a new moon, yellow and curved like a young banana,--droop over the dreaming sea: there were sparklings like effervescence through the archway of stars,--perhaps the molecular motion of some Astral Thought. Then seemed to fall upon the world a hush like the hush of sanctuaries,--like that _Silence of Secrets_ told of in the Bhagavad-Gita: the peace of the Immensities. In such hours fancies come to us like gusts of seawind,--as vast and pure; nay, sometimes vaster,--measureless like the interspaces between sun and sun. For it is only in these voiceless moments that the heavens speak to us,--telling of mysteries beyond the luminous signaling of astral deep unto astral deep, beyond the furthest burning of constellations; mysteries
remain," Valentin interposed. "He is aware of the matter that brings me hither; it concerns the foster-son of the forester Wolfram." He paused as if awaiting an answer, but none was forthcoming. The Count sat still, with an unmoved countenance, and Albrecht, although he suddenly became attentive, was silent; therefore the priest was compelled to proceed. "You will remember, Herr Count, that it was through me that you received intelligence of the boy's place of abode, coupled with the request that you would befriend him." "A request with which I immediately complied Wolfram took charge of the child by my desire, as I informed you." "True; I should indeed have much preferred to see the child in other hands, although such was your disposition of him. Now, however, the boy has grown older, and cannot possibly be left among such surroundings. I am convinced that you could not desire it." "And why not?" rejoined Steinrück, coldly. "I know Wolfram to be thoroughly trustworthy, and I had my reasons for choosing him. Do you know anything to his discredit?" "No; the man is honest, after his fashion, but rude and half savage in his solitude. Since his wife's death he scarcely comes in contact with mankind, and his household differs in no wise from that of a common peasant. Such a one can scarcely be a good home for a growing boy, least of all for the grandson of Count Steinrück." Albrecht, standing behind his father's chair, stirred uneasily; the old Count frowned, and rejoined, sharply, "I have but one grandchild, my son's boy, and I pray your reverence to keep this fact in mind in your allusion to the matter under discussion." The priest's gentle gaze fell grave and reproachful upon the speaker. "Pardon me, Herr Count, but your daughter's legitimate child has a just claim to be entitled your grandson." "Nevertheless he is not such; that marriage had no existence for me or for my family." "And yet you acceded to my request when Michael----" The Count started. "Michael?" he repeated, slowly. "The boy's name. Did you not know it?" "No; I did not see the child when it was given to Wolfram to educate." "There could be no question of education with a man of Wolfram's lack of culture, and yet much might have been effected by it. Michael had been neglected and allowed to run wild in the uncertain life led by his parents. I have done what I could for him, and have given him all the instruction that I could, considering the seclusion of the forester's lodge." "Have you really done this?" There was displeased surprise in the tone of the question. "Certainly; no other instruction was possible in that seclusion, and I could not for a moment suppose that the boy was to be intentionally degraded and intellectually starved in that solitude. Such a punishment for his parent's fault would have been too hard." There was stern reproof in the simple words, and they must have hit the mark, for an angry gleam flashed in Steinrück's eyes. "Whatever your reverence may have learned of our family affairs, your judgment with regard to them must be that of a stranger, and as such some things may seem incomprehensible to you. It is my duty, as the head of the family, to preserve its honour intact, and whoever assails and attaints that honour will be thrust forth from my heart and home, though such assault proceed from my own child. I did what I was forced to do, and in case of a like terrible necessity I should act similarly." The words were uttered with iron determination, and Valentin was silent for a moment, probably feeling that no priestly admonition could affect such a nature. "The Countess Louise has found rest in the grave," he said at last, and his voice trembled slightly as he uttered the name, "and with her also the man to whom she was wedded. Her son is alone and unprotected, and I come to ask for the boy what you would not refuse to any orphaned stranger commended to your care,--an education which will enable him in future to confront life and the world. If he remains in Wolfram's charge he is entirely excluded from anything of the kind, and will be condemned to a half-savage existence in some lonely mountain forest lodge, a life no higher in aim than that of the merest peasant. If you, Herr Count, can answer to yourself for this----" "Enough!" the Count angrily interrupted him, rising from his chair. "I will take the matter into consideration and decide definitively with regard to your _protégé_. Upon this your reverence may rely." The pastor arose on the instant; he perceived that the interview was at an end, and he had no desire to prolong it. "My _protégé_?" he repeated; "may he be yours also, Herr Count,--he surely has a right to be so." And with a brief, grave inclination of his head to each of the gentlemen, he left the room. "A most extraordinary visit!" said Albrecht, who had hitherto been silent. "What right has this priest to meddle in our family affairs?" Steinrück shrugged his shoulders. "He was formerly our cousin's father confessor, and now occupies a confidential position with his family, although he lives high up in a lonely Alpine village. He and no other must attend Steinrück's body to the grave. I shall make him understand, however, that I am inaccessible to priestly influence. I could not quite deny myself to him, since it was he who some time ago asked my aid for the orphan boy, any more than I could refuse the aid he asked." "Yes, the boy had to be cared for, and it has been done," Albrecht coolly assented. "You attended to the matter yourself, sir. This Wolfram--I have an indistinct remembrance of the name--was once a gamekeeper of yours, was he not?" "Yes; my recommendation procured him his position as forester with my cousin. He is taciturn and trustworthy, troubling himself little concerning matters beyond his ken. He never asked what my relations with the boy intrusted to him were, but did as he was bidden, and took him home." "Where he belongs, of course. You do not contemplate making any change?" "That remains to be decided. I must see him." Albrecht started, and his features betrayed surprise and annoyance. "Wherefore? Why have any personal contact with him? One keeps as far as possible out of the way of such disagreeable matters." "That is your fashion," the Count said, sharply. "Mine is to confront such evils, and contend with them, if necessary, face to face." He stamped his foot in a sudden outburst of anger. "'_Intentionally_ degraded and intellectually starved as a punishment for his parent's fault!' That this priest should say it to my face!" "Yes, it only remained for him to undertake the defence of the parents," Albrecht interposed, disdainfully. "And they called their boy Michael. They presumed to give him your name,--the ancient traditional name of our family. The insult is apparent." "It may have been the result of repentance," Steinrück said, gloomily. "Your son is called Raoul." "Not at all; he was christened by your name, which he bears." "In the church register! He is called Raoul; your wife has seen to that." "It is the name of Hortense's father, and she clings to it with filial devotion. You know this, and you have never found any fault with it." "If it were the name alone! But it is not the only thing foreign to me in my grandson. There is no trace of the Steinrück in Raoul, either in face or in character; he resembles his mother." "I should not reckon that against him. Hortense has always been considered a beauty. You have no idea how many conquests she still makes." The words were uttered in seeming jest, but they met with no response in the manner of the old Count, who remained grave and cold. "That probably accounts for her attachment to the scene of such triumphs. You spend more time in France with her relatives than you do at home. Your visits there are more frequent and more prolonged as time goes on, and there is some talk now, I hear, of your being attached to our embassy in Paris. Then Hortense will have attained her desire." "I must go wherever I am sent," Albrecht said in self-exculpation, "and if they select me----" "What? playing your diplomatic game with me?" his father interrupted him harshly. "I know well enough what secret wires are pulled, and the position is but an insignificant one. I expected better things of your career, Albrecht. There were paths enough open to you whereby to attain eminence, but to do so needed ambition and energy, neither of which qualities have you ever possessed. Now you are applying for a position which you will owe entirely to your name, and which you may occupy for a decade without advancing a step,--and all in obedience to the wishes of your wife." Albrecht bit his lip at this reproof, uttered as it was with almost brutal frankness. "In this respect, papa, you have always been unjust; you never regarded my marriage with any favour. I thought myself secure of your approval of my choice, and you have all but reproached me for bringing home to you a beautiful, talented daughter from one of the most distinguished----" "Who has never been other than a stranger to us," Steinrück interrupted his son. "She has never yet perceived that she belongs to us, not you to her. I could wish you had brought home to me the daughter of the simplest country nobleman instead of this Hortense de Montigny. It is not good, the mixture of hot French blood in our ancient German race, and Raoul shows far too much of it. Stern military discipline will be of use to him." "Yes,--you insist that he shall enter the army," said Albrecht, with hesitation. "Hortense is afraid--and I fear also--that our child is not equal to much hardship. He is a delicate boy; he will not be able to endure such iron discipline." "He must learn to endure it. Your delicate health has always excluded you from the service; but Raoul is healthy, and it is high time to withdraw him from the effeminating effect of pampering and petting. The army is the best school for him. My grandson must not be a weakling; he must do honour to our name; I'll take care of that." Albrecht was silent; he knew his father's inflexible will. It still gave him the law, husband and father though he were, and Count Michael Steinrück was the man to see that his laws were obeyed. * * * * * "I can't help it, your reverence; the fellow is a trial. He knows nothing, he understands nothing; he wanders about the mountains from morning to night, and grows stupider every day. He'll never make a decent forester; 'tis all trouble lost." The words were spoken by a man whose appearance betrayed his forester's calling. He was provided with gun and hunting-pouch, and was sturdy and powerful of frame, with broad shoulders and coarse features. His hair and beard were neglected, his dress--a mixture of hunting and peasant's costume--was careless in the extreme, and his speech was as rude as his exterior; thus he confronted the priest. The pair were in the parsonage of Saint Michael, a small hamlet high up among the mountains, and a place of pilgrimage. The priest, seated at his writing-table, shook his gray head disapprovingly. "As I have often told you, Wolfram, you do not understand how to treat Michael. You can never do anything with him by threats and abuse; you only make him shyer, and he is already shy enough in his intercourse with human kind." "That all comes from his stupidity," the forester explained. "The boy does not see daylight clearly; he has to be shaken hard to rouse him, since I made your reverence a promise not to beat him again." "And I hope you have kept your word. The child has been much sinned against; you and your wife maltreated him daily before I came here." "It did him good. All boys need the stick, and Michael always needed a double portion. Well, he got it. When I stopped, my wife began; but it never did any good,--it never made him any the cleverer." "No; but he would have been ruined by your rough treatment if I had not interfered." Wolfram laughed aloud. "Ruined? Michael? Not a bit of it. He could have borne ten times as much; he's as strong as a bear. It's a perfect shame; the fellow could tear up trees by the roots, and he lets himself be teased by the village children without ever stirring a finger. I know right well why he wouldn't come along with me to-day, but chose to follow me. He won't come through the village; he chooses to come the longer way, through the forest, as he always does when he comes to you, the cowardly fellow!" "Michael is no coward," said the pastor, gravely. "You ought to know that, Wolfram; you have told me yourself that there is no controlling him when he once gets angry." "Yes, he's right crazy then, and must be let alone. If I didn't know that he's not all right here"--he touched his forehead--"I'd take him in hand, but it's a terrible cross. It's strange, too, that he shoots so well, when he sees the game, though that's not often. He stares up into the trees and the sky, and a stag will run away right under his nose. I'm not curious, but, indeed, I'd like to know where the moon-calf comes from." Valentin looked pained at these words, but he replied, calmly, "That can hardly interest you. Do not put such ideas into Michael's head, or he might ask you questions which you cannot answer." "He's too stupid for that," asserted the forester, with whom his foster-son's stupidity seemed to be an indisputable article of faith. "I don't believe he knows that he was ever even born. But Tyras is barking,--he must see Michael." In fact, the dog was barking joyously, the sound of approaching footsteps was heard, and in the next instant Michael entered the room. The new-comer was a lad of about eighteen, but his tall, powerful figure, with its awkward movements, showed nothing of the grace and freshness of youth. The face, plain and irregular in all its lines, had a half-shy, half-dreamy expression that was hardly attractive. The thick, fair curls were matted around the temples and brow, below which looked out a pair of eyes deep blue in colour, but as vacant as if no soul enlightened their depths. His dress was as sordid and neglected as the forester's, and in his entire appearance there was absolutely nothing to attract. "Well, have you come at last?" was his foster-father's gruff reception of him. "You must have gone to sleep on the way, or you would have been here long ago." "I came through the forest," replied Michael, going up to the priest, who kindly held out his hand to him. Wolfram laughed scornfully. "Didn't I tell your reverence? He didn't dare to go through the village,--I knew it." Michael paid not the slightest heed to the apparently well-grounded accusation, being well used to such treatment from his foster-father, who now took his hat and made ready to go. "I must go up to the fenced forest," he said; "it looks badly there: more than a dozen of the tallest trees are torn down; the Wild Huntsman has made terrible work there lately." "You mean the storms of the last week, Wolfram?" "No, it was the Wild Huntsman, your reverence. He is abroad every night this spring. The day before yesterday, as we came through the wood at dusk, the whole mad crew swept by not a hundred yards away. They raged and howled and stormed as though all hell had broken loose, and I suppose a bit of it had done so. Michael, stupid fool, would have rushed into the thick of it, but I caught his arm in time and held him fast." "I wanted to see the demon at close quarters," said Michael, quietly. The forester shrugged his shoulders. "There, your reverence, you see what the fellow is! He runs away from human creatures and such like, but he wants to be right in the midst of things which make every Christian shudder, and cross himself! I really believe he would have joined the phantoms if I had not held him back, and then he would now have been lying dead in the forest, for he who joins the Wild Huntsman's chase is lost." "Will you never be rid of this sinful superstition, Wolfram?" said the priest. "You pretend to be a Christian, and are nothing better than a heathen. And you have infected Michael, too; his head is full of heathenish legends." "It may be sinful, but it's true for all that," Wolfram insisted. "I don't suppose you see anything of it. You are a holy man, a consecrated priest, and the ghostly rabble that haunt the forest at night is afraid of you, but the like of us see and hear more of it than is agreeable. Then Michael is to stay here?" "Of course. I will send him back in the afternoon." "Good--by, then," said the forester, tightening the strap of his gun. He bowed to the priest, and departed without taking further notice of his foster-son. Michael, who seemed to be perfectly at home in the parsonage, now fetched various books and papers from a cupboard and arranged them on the writing-table. Evidently the wonted instruction was about to begin, but before it could do so the sound of a sleigh was heard outside. Valentin looked up in surprise; the rare visits that he received were almost exclusively from the pastors of secluded Alpine villages, and pilgrims were scarcely to be looked for at this time of year. Saint Michael was not one of those large and famous places of pilgrimage whither the faithful resort in crowds at all seasons. Only the poor dwellers on the Alps brought their vows and supplications to the secluded hamlet, and only upon church festivals was there any great gathering there. Meanwhile, the sleigh had drawn up before the parsonage. A gentleman in a fur coat got out, inquired of the maid who met him at the door whether the Herr Pastor was at home, and forthwith made his way to the study. Valentin started at the sound of the voice, and then rose with delighted surprise in every feature. "Hans! Is it you?" "You know me still, then? It would be no wonder if each of us failed to recognize the other," said the stranger, offering his hand, which was warmly grasped by the priest. "Welcome, welcome! Have you really found me out?" "Yes, it certainly was a proof of affection, the getting up to you here," said the guest. "We have been working our way for hours through the snow; sometimes fallen hemlocks lay directly across the road, sometimes we had to cross a mountain torrent, and for a change we had small avalanches from the rocks. And yet my coachman obstinately insisted that it was the high-road. I should like, then, to see your foot-paths; they must be practicable for chamois only." Valentin smiled. "You are the same old fellow,--always sneering and criticising. Leave us, Michael, and tell the gentleman's coachman to put up his horses." Michael left the room, but not before the stranger had turned and glanced at him. "Have you set up a famulus? Who is that dreamer?" "My pupil, whom I teach." "You must have hard work to gel anything inside that head! That fellow's talent would seem to lie solely in his fists." As he spoke the guest had taken off his furs, and was seen to be a man about five or six years younger than the pastor, of hardly medium height, but with a very distinguished head, which, with its broad brow and intellectual features, riveted attention at the first glance. The clear, keen eyes seemed used to probe everything to the core, and in the man's whole bearing there was evident the sense of superiority which comes of being regarded as an authority in one's own circle. He looked keenly about him, investigating the pastor's study and adjoining room, both of which displayed a monastic simplicity; and as he turned his eyes from one object to another in the small apartment, he said, without a trace of sarcasm, but with some bitterness, "And here you have cast anchor! I never imagined your solitude so desolate and world-forsaken. Poor Valentin! You have to pay for the assault that my investigations make so inexorably upon your dogmas, and for my works being down in the 'Index.'" The pastor repudiated this charge by a gentle gesture. "What an idea! There are frequent changes in ecclesiastical appointments, and I came to Saint Michael----" "Because you had Hans Wehlau for a brother," the other completed the sentence. "If you would publicly have cut loose from me, and thundered from your pulpit against my atheism, you would have been in a more comfortable parsonage, I can tell you. It is well known that there has been no breach between us, although we have not seen each other for years, and you must pay for it. Why did you not condemn me publicly? I never should have taken it ill of you, since I know that you absolutely repudiate my teachings." "I condemn no one," the pastor said, softly; "certainly not you, Hans, although it grieves me sorely to see you so greatly astray." "Yes; you never had any talent for fanaticism, but always a very great one for martyrdom. It often vexes me horribly, though, that I am the one to help you to it. I have taken good care, however, that my visit to-day should not be known; I am here _incognito_. I could not resist the temptation to see you again on my removal to Northern Germany." "What! you are going to leave the university?" "Next month. I have been called to the capital, and I accepted immediately, since I know it to be the sphere suited to me and to my work. I wanted to bid you good-by; but I nearly missed you, for, as I hear, you were at Steinrück yesterday at the Count's funeral." "By the Countess's express desire I officiated." "I thought so! They summoned me by telegraph to Berkheim to the death-bed." "And you went?" "Of course, although I gave up practice long ago for the professorial chair. This was an exceptional case. I can never forget how the Steinrücks befriended me, employing me when I was a young, obscure physician, upon your recommendation, to be sure, but they placed every confidence in me. I could, indeed, do nothing for the Count except to make death easier, but my presence was a satisfaction for the family." Michael's entrance interrupted the conversation. He came to say that the sacristan wished to speak for a moment with his reverence, and was waiting outside. "I will come back immediately," said Valentin. "Put away your books, Michael; there will be no lessons to-day." He left the room, and Michael began to gather up the books and papers. The Professor watched him, and said, casually, "And so the Herr Pastor teaches you?" Michael nodded and went on with his occupation. "It's just like him," murmured Wehlau. "Here he is tormenting himself with teaching this stupid fellow to read and write, probably because there is no school in the neighbourhood. Let me look at that." And he took up one of the copy-books, nearly dropping it on the instant in his surprise. "What! Latin? How is this?" Michael did not comprehend his surprise; it seemed to him quite natural to understand Latin, and he answered, quietly, "Those are my exercises." The Professor looked at the lad, whose dress proclaimed him a mere peasant, scanned him from head to foot, and then turning over the leaves of the book, read several lines and shook his head. "You seem to be an excellent Latin scholar. Where do you come from?" "From the forester's, a couple of miles away." "And what is your name?" "Michael." "Your name is that of the hamlet. Were you named after it?" "I don't know,--I think I was named after the archangel Michael." He uttered the name with a certain solemnity, and Wehlau, noticing it, asked, with a sarcastic smile, "You hold the angels in great respect?" Michael threw back his head. "No, they only pray and sing through all eternity, and I don't care for that; but I like Saint Michael. At least he does something: he thrusts down Satan." There must have been something unusual either in his words or in his expression, for the Professor started and riveted his keen eyes upon the face of the lad, who stood close to him, full in the sunlight that entered by the low window. "Strange," he murmured again. "The face is utterly changed. What is there in the features----?" At this moment Valentin reappeared, and, seeing the book in his brother's hand, asked, "Have you been examining Michael? He is a good Latin scholar is he not?" "He is, indeed; but what good is Latin to do him in a lonely forest lodge? I suppose his father is too poor to send him to school?" "But I hope to do something for him in some other way," said the pastor; and as Michael took his books to the cupboard he went on, in a low tone, "If the poor fellow were only not so ugly and awkward! Everything depends upon the impression that he makes in a certain quarter, and I fear it will be very unfavourable." "Ugly?--yes, he certainly is that; and yet a moment ago, when he made quite an intelligent remark, something flashed into his features like lightning, reminding me of--yes, now I have it--of Count Steinrück." "Of Count Steinrück?" Valentin repeated, in surprise. "I don't mean the man who has just died, but his cousin, the head of the elder branch. He was in Berkheim the other day, and I became acquainted with him there. He would consider my idea an insult, and he would not be far wrong. To compare Steinrück, dignified and handsome as he is, with that moonstruck lad! They have not a feature in common. I cannot tell why the thought came into my head, but it did when I saw the fellow's eyes flash." The pastor made no reply to this last observation, but said, as if to change the subject, "Yes, Michael is certainly a dreamer. Sometimes in his apathy and indifference he seems to me like a somnambulist." "Well, that would not be very dreadful," said his brother. "Somnambulists can be awakened if they are called in the right way, and when that lad wakes up he may be worth something. His exercises are very good." "And yet learning has been made so hard for him! How often he has had to contend with storm and wind rather than lose a lesson, and he has never missed one!" "Rather different from my Hans," the Professor said, dryly. "He employs his school-hours in drawing caricatures of his teachers; my personal interference has been necessary at times. He is too audacious, because he has been such a lucky sort of fellow. Whatever he tries succeeds; wherever he knocks doors and hearts fly open to receive him, and consequently he imagines that life is all play,--nothing but amusement from beginning to end. Well, I'll show him another side of the picture when once he begins to study natural science." "Has he shown any inclination for such study?" "Most certainly not. His only inclination is for scrawling and daubing; there's no doing anything with him if he scents a painted canvas, but I'll cure him of all that." "But if he has a talent for----" the pastor interposed. His brother angrily interrupted him: "That's the worst of it,--a talent! His drawing-masters stuff his head with all sorts of nonsense; and awhile ago a painter fellow, a friend of the family, made a tragic appeal to me,--Could I answer it to myself to deprive the world of such a gift? I was positively rude to him; I couldn't help it." Valentin shook his head half disapprovingly. "But why do you not allow your son to follow his inclination?" "Can you ask? Because an intellectual inheritance is his by right. My name stands high in the scientific world, and must open all doors for Hans while he lives. If he follows in my footsteps he is sure of success; he is his father's son. But God have mercy on him if he takes it into his head to be what they call a genius!" Meanwhile, Michael had put away his books, and now advanced to take his leave. Since there was to be no lesson, there was no excuse for his remaining any longer at the parsonage. His face again showed the same vacant, dreamy expression peculiar to it; and as he left the room Wehlau said in an undertone to his brother, "You are right; he is too ugly, poor devil!" * * * * * The Counts of Steinrück belonged to an ancient and formerly very powerful family, dating back centuries. Its two branches owned a common lineage, but were now only distantly connected, and there had been times when there had been no intercourse between them, so widely had they been sundered by diversity of religious belief. The elder and Protestant branch, belonging to Northern Germany, possessed entailed estates yielding a moderate income; the South-German cousins, on the contrary, were owners of a very large property, consisting chiefly of estates in fee, and were among the wealthiest in the land. This wealth was at present owned by a child eight years of age, the daughter whom the late Count had constituted his sole heiress. Conscious of the hopeless nature of his malady, he had summoned his cousin, and had made him the executor of his will and his daughter's guardian. Thus had been adjusted an estrangement that had existed for years, and that had its rise in an alliance once contracted, only to be suddenly dissolved. Besides his son, the present Count Steinrück had had another child,--a beautiful, richly-endowed daughter, the favourite of her father, whom she resembled in character and in mind. She was to have married her relative, the Count now deceased; the union had long been agreed upon in the family, and the young Countess had consequently spent many weeks at a time beneath the roof of her future parents-in-law. But before there had been any formal betrothal between the young people, there intervened with the girl of eighteen one of those passions which lead,--which must lead--to ruin, not because of difference of rank and social standing, not because of the consequent estrangement of families, but because they lack the only thing that can confer upon a union a blessing and endurance,--true, genuine affection. It was an intoxication sure to be followed by remorse and repentance when, alas, it was too late. Louise became acquainted with a man who, although of bourgeois parentage, had worked his way into aristocratic circles. Brilliantly handsome, endowed with various accomplishments and a winning grace of manner, he succeeded in gaining entrance everywhere; but he was one of those restless, unsteady beings who can never adjust themselves for long to any environments. Possessed by a positive greed for the luxuries and splendours of existence, he had no capacity for attaining them by his own energy; he was an adventurer in the truest sense of the word. He may have loved the young Countess sincerely, he may have only hoped to achieve social position through her means; at all events, he contrived so to ensnare her that she resolved, in spite of the certain opposition of her father and of her entire family, to become his wife. When the Count learned how matters stood, he took them in hand with an energy that was indeed ominous. He believed that by commands and threats he could bend his daughter to his will, but he only aroused in her the obstinacy which she had inherited from himself. She utterly refused to yield him obedience, opposed resolutely all effort to carry out her betrothal to her cousin, and, in spite of every precaution, contrived to hold communication with her lover. Suddenly she disappeared, and a few days afterwards news was received that she had become the wife of Rodenberg. The marriage was perfectly valid, in spite of the haste and secrecy with which it was contracted; Rodenberg had arranged and prepared everything. He reckoned upon Count Steinrück's final acknowledgment of his daughter's husband: he would not surely cast them off; he trusted to the father's affection for his favourite child, but he did not know the Count's iron nature. Steinrück replied to the announcement of the marriage by an utter repudiation of his daughter; he forbade her ever again to appear in his presence: for him she was dead. He persisted inexorably in this course until his daughter's death, and even after it had taken place. At first Rodenberg made several attempts to induce his wife's father to grant him an interview, but he soon perceived the uselessness of any such attempt; the Count was neither to be persuaded nor coerced, and since all sources of aid were thus cut off, the man plunged with his wife and child into a Bohemian mode of life harmonizing with his lawless nature. What followed was the inevitable result,--misery and want, a gradual sinking into ruin; the lot of the wife beside the husband for whom she had sacrificed name, home, and family, when all hopes founded upon her and upon her wealth had vanished, can easily be imagined. She was true to her nature, and clung to the man whom she had married, without one attempt to obtain help from her father, knowing that even her death would be powerless to effect a reconciliation. She and her husband had now been dead for many years, and the wretched family tragedy was buried with them. * * * * * An entire week had passed since the funeral at Steinrück. Count Michael, who occupied the rooms that had been his cousin's, was sitting in the bow-windowed apartment, when he was told that Wolfram the forester had arrived in obedience to his desire. The Count was in full uniform, being about to ride to a neighbouring town, where the sovereign's brother had instituted a memorial celebration. Of course every one of consequence in the country around had been invited to take part in the ceremonial, and the lord of Steinrück could not refuse to be present on the occasion, although, in view of the family bereavement, he was to withdraw before the subsequent festivities. The hour for his departure was at hand, but there was still time for his interview with the forester. As he sat at his writing-table he took from one of its drawers the star of an order set with large brilliants. As he was about to fasten it on his breast he saw that the ribbon was loose, and as Wolfram entered at the moment, he laid it in the open case on the table. The forester was in full dress to-day, and really looked well. His hair and beard were carefully arranged, and great pains had been bestowed upon his hunting-suit; nor did he seem to have forgotten the demeanor required in presence of his former master, for, with a respectful bow, he paused at the door until the Count motioned to him to approach. "Ah, here
the speakers surrounding him. The language of the community in which the child grows up is the parent of his speech. Now, it is evident that in the animal world the influence of descent, powerful factor though it be, is still limited, inasmuch as the _direct_ effect of the parent’s influence ceases at a fixed point. In language, on the other hand, the influence of the _linguistic_ parent is permanently at work: strongest during infancy, it diminishes in force indeed, but never entirely ceases to make itself felt. Again, the animal owes its birth to a single pair only, while in language an indefinite number of speakers co-operate to produce the new individual. Moreover, as soon as a child acquires any speech at all, it becomes in its turn a member of the community and affects the language of others. Its speech is consciously or unconsciously imitated by those from whom it learned and is still learning; and thus, in language, parents may be said to become the children of their own offspring. Differentiation of language is, of course, impossible unless usage alters; but it would be incorrect to conclude that differentiation must necessarily be greater as the variation in usage is more violent. There is no _à priori_ reason why a large group of individuals, who at any given moment speak what may be considered to be _one and the same_ language, should not alter their usage all in the same manner. Yet, if we remember that each individual has his own peculiarities, and that, while each acquires his speech by imitating others, such imitation is never perfect, we shall readily understand that language must change from generation to generation, even were other causes not present to promote such changes; and, in fact, that differences will and must arise. Alteration and differentiation are unavoidable; and it is intercourse between the members of a community or a nation which can alone keep these within bounds. The alterative forces are more free to exert their influence in proportion as such intercourse is restricted. If we could imagine a large country where the intercourse between the inhabitants was of perfectly equal intensity throughout, we might expect to find the language of each individual differing but imperceptibly from the respective languages of his neighbours; and, though the tongues spoken at opposite extremities might show a wide divergence, it would be impossible to arrange the individual varieties into dialectical groups; for the speech of each man would be some intermediate stage between the individual tongues on either side. But such equal intensity of intercourse exists nowhere over any considerable area. Geographical, political, commercial influences, separately or combined, erect barriers or overcome them; and peculiarities of speech which, arising at one place, spread over others, are yet confined within certain limits. These peculiarities, then, will clearly distinguish those dialects of individuals which partake of them from such as do not; and consequently we shall have distinct limits for grouping the dialects spoken by separate individuals into those spoken by separate districts--that is to say, into what is most commonly understood when we speak of ‘dialects.’ All would now be simple and easy if lines of demarcation thus arrived at were found to coincide with whatever peculiarities or characteristics we happened to choose for our criteria. But the fact is that groups which would be classed together in view of some special points of resemblance will fall asunder when other points are considered as essential characteristics; for the spread of characteristics derived from intercourse with one district must frequently be checked and thwarted by intercourse with another district that does not share the same tendency. Thus, if we make use of the letter _a_ to indicate a group of individuals speaking a tongue essentially identical, employing _b_ for another such group, _c_ for a third, and so on, then _a_ and _b_ may very possibly correspond in usage or pronunciation in some point, _x_, in which both may differ from _c_, while _a_ and _c_, but not _b_, will be found to agree in _y_. In yet a third point, _z_, in which they both differ from _a_, etc., _b_ and _c_ may agree; whilst _a_, _b_, _c_ and other groups may very well have points, _w_, _t_, etc., in common with one another and with _d_ or _e_, and in these same points will differ from _f_. On the other hand, _f_ may agree in some other points with _a_, in some with _b_, in some with _c_, etc. It is unnecessary to dwell further on this. We see plainly that as different alterations have a different extent and different lines of demarcation, the crossings of groups and resemblances may be expected to become of infinite complexity. But if, further, we suppose the differentiation between _a_, _b_, and _c_ to be already so great that we may regard these as separate dialects, yet it is by no means impossible that a tendency to some alteration should make itself felt in each of them, or that, having arisen in one, the peculiarity should spread over all. It follows from this consideration that any peculiarity shared by all or many dialects of a language is not necessarily older than one which characterises only a few, though, of course, that such will be the case is the natural assumption. Nor are the most strongly marked characteristics, by whose means we now distinguish existing dialects, and according to which we range them into groups, necessarily older than those which we overlook in deciding these mutual relationships. To instance this, we may refer to the various Teutonic dialects, which undoubtedly had many marked differences long before the process of sound-shifting began. It was some time in or near the seventh century A.D. when some of these dialects commenced to substitute _p_ for _b_, _t_ for _d_, _k_ for _g_; _t_ became _ts_ (_z_), _k_ became _h_, _p_ became _f_ or _pf_, and in some cases _b_ and _g_ were substituted for the sonant fricatives _v_ and _g_.[3] This change or sound-shifting was in progress during something like two centuries, and it is according to the extent of their participation in this that we classify the various dialects as High German, Middle German, and Low German, respectively. We consequently class as Low German three dialects which otherwise present very strongly marked differences: the Frisian, the Saxon, and in part the Franconian, the case of which last is especially instructive. The Franconian dialect did not as a whole participate in the changes to which we have alluded above. Only the more southern part of the Franconian tribe adopted the sound-shifting, in common with other southern tribes which spoke distinctly different dialects. Consequently, adhering to our above-mentioned principle of classification, we must class the so-called _Low_ Franconian in a group totally distinct from that in which the _High_ Franconian must be placed, notwithstanding the fact that in other respects these dialects have preserved many important resemblances. It would also be incorrect to regard dialects which have become more strongly differentiated than others as having necessarily become so at an earlier date. The widest divergence is not necessarily the oldest, for circumstances may arise to facilitate the widening of a recent breach, as they may, on the other hand, arise to prevent a slight divergence of long standing from becoming a gap of importance. If two groups, _a_ and _b_, are differentiated, and yet keep up sufficient intercourse, they may very well remain similar, though not equal, during a very long period; while a subdivision of _a_, which circumstances only affecting a minority in that group have separated later, may develop a rapidly increasing divergence between its small community on the one hand, and the remaining members of _a_ together with the whole of _b_ on the other. One more lesson resulting from the foregoing consideration is the following. It is too often assumed as a matter of course that the speech of districts lying between others that possess strongly differentiated languages is the result of the contact and commixture of the two latter. Such possibility is indeed not denied; it, in fact, often occurs; but the alternative supposition that the mixture is a survival of some intermediate dialect is equally possible, and must not be forgotten. It is clear that what we now call languages are merely further developments of dialects; but here once more we may easily err by assuming too much. If we find two distinct languages, it does not necessarily follow that they have passed through a stage in which they were two dialects, distinct indeed, but differing to a less extent than at present. Indicating dialects by _a_ and _b_, and languages by _A_ and _B_, we must not conclude, on meeting with the two latter, that _A_ must have inevitably originated from _a_, and _B_ from _b_. It is quite possible that both _A_ and _B_ may have arisen from (say) _a_ alone; and of this possibility Anglo-Saxon and its descendant Modern English furnish a clear instance. The dialect spoken by the invaders differed, if at all, in a very slight degree from the Frisian (_a_), which followed a regular course of development in its ancestral home. But the language of the invaders (which, in view of its identity or close resemblance with the Frisian, we may also call _a_) had in the British Islands a different history and a different development. It was rapidly differentiated, and one of its dialects became a literary language, distinct in every point from its sister-tongue. Thus the modern representative of Frisian (_A_), and our present literary English (_B_) are found to have sprung from one source (_a_) alone. The consideration of this case leads us to our next point. In all the foregoing cases we presupposed that the speakers of the individual language or of the group-languages were on the whole stationary. We need not here indicate at length the effect upon a community of its migration into regions where other languages are prevalent. The result is commonly a mixed language: and the subject of so-called mixed languages we reserve for another chapter: here we need only remind the student that by such migrations the connection of the language of the emigrants with that of other communities of similar speech is loosened, and the action of differentiating forces, which thus acquire free and unrestricted play, must necessarily be augmented. The criterion for distinction of dialects among a community of individual languages is, and must be, their phonetic character. Vocabulary and syntax are easily and generally maintained, or, if anything new arises, it may possibly spread over wide areas; but differences of pronunciation and peculiarities of utterance do not necessarily result from the borrowing of new terms. For instance: a community which pronounces _a_ of _father_ as _aw_ (_i.e._ like _a_ in _all_) will do so even when borrowing a word from some dialect in which the pure _a_ is usual. In conclusion, we must not omit to combat an error too often repeated in books on language which enjoy a reputation otherwise well-deserved. It is a common notion that the tendency to differentiation is, as civilisation advances, replaced by one towards unification; in proof of which we are reminded of the one uniform literary language which, among the educated members of a nation, replaces the various provincial dialects. But this literary language is by no means a regular and natural development of the pre-existing dialects. _One_ of these, favoured by circumstances political or literary, obtains a supremacy which causes its adoption by those who would otherwise ignore it and continue to speak the dialects of their own provinces, counties, or districts. Hence it is in a certain sense a foreign tongue to them, and though in course of time it may come to replace the indigenous dialect of any district, so that scarcely a trace of the latter remains, it would be misleading to say that this dialect has developed into a language before which it has in reality disappeared. CHAPTER III. ON SOUND-CHANGE. Language is in a constant state of change; and the changes to which it is subject fall under two very different heads. In the first place, new words find their way into a language, whilst existing words become obsolete and drop out of existence: and, secondly, existing words remain, but gradually alter their pronunciation. It is the second of these phenomena which we have to study in this chapter; and a clear idea of its nature, origin, and progress is indispensable to any real knowledge of philology. To gain this idea we must carefully consider the processes which occur when we speak. We have to take note of no less than five elements, all of which are present each time that we utter a sound, and these should be carefully distinguished. In the first place, whether we break silence and begin to speak, or proceed in the course of speaking to any particular sound, our vocal organs must move towards a certain position, in which they must remain during the time of the utterance of the sound. This is equally true whether they are set in motion after a period of rest, or after a position rendered necessary by their utterance of some other sound. Let us take, for instance, the sound which in the word _father_ we represent by the letter _a_. In pronouncing this WORD we BEGIN by putting our lips, tongue, vocal chords, etc., all in such a position that, on the breath passing through them or coming into contact with them, the sound represented by _f_ is produced; and as long as the vocal organs remain in that position, nothing but _f_ can be pronounced. In order, then, to pronounce the _a_ sound, we must alter the position of our vocal organs: our vocal chords must be approximated, our lips relaxed, our mouth opened wider, until the _a_ position is attained. It is clear that the course which we take to reach our goal depends not merely upon the position of that goal, but likewise upon the point whence we start to reach it. Hence the course whereby we reach this _a_ position will vary constantly and considerably, seeing that in our utterance of the _a_ sound we can and do cause many other sounds to precede it. But all these movements agree in one respect, that they terminate in a certain position, which we maintain as long as the _a_ sound lasts. Secondly, we must notice that this position is maintained only by a certain balance of the tension in the various muscles of our tongue, throat, lips, etc.; and this tension, though we may not indeed be conscious of it, _we feel_. Thirdly, _we hear_, more or less exactly, the sound which we produce. Fourthly, this feeling and this sound, like every physical occurrence in which we actively or passively participate, leave behind them in our mind a certain impression. This impression, though it may indeed disappear and sink beneath the level of consciousness, remains nevertheless existent, is strengthened by repetition, and can, under certain conditions, be again recalled to consciousness. We consequently come gradually to acquire a permanent mental impression of both feeling and sound. There is formed in our mind what we may call the memory-picture of the _position_; and Fifthly, there is likewise formed ‘a memory-picture’ of the _sound_. It will be readily seen that of these five ‘elements’ only the last two are permanent, and that they, and they only, are psychical. In every individual case of sound-utterance, all that is _physical_ is momentary and transitory. We abandon the position; the corresponding tensions make way for others; the sound dies away: but the memory-pictures alike of position and sound remain in our mind. There is no physical connection between our utterances of the ‘same’ sound, or word, or phrase; there is only a psychical connection: and this reposes upon the two elements which we have already called the memory-pictures of sound and position respectively. A word must be added on the nature of the association existing between these two. This association, however intimate it may be, is _external_ only; there is no necessary _psychical_ connection between any sensation of vibration in our organs of hearing and any other sensation of tension in the muscles of our vocal organs. If we gained the first-named sensation again and again from hearing others speak, yet we should still be unable to imitate them at once, even though, for whatever reason, we had set our vocal organs repeatedly in the same position. But the fact that when we ourselves utter a sound we also hear it, associates the physical sensations of sound with those of position, and this invariably; and it thus happens that the respective memory-pictures of the two are left closely associated in our mind. When we speak of these movement- and sound-pictures as lingering or as existing in our memories, it is not implied that we are necessarily conscious of their existence. On the contrary, the speaker, under ordinary circumstances, is wholly unconscious of them: nor has he anything like a clear notion of the various elements of sound which together make up the spoken word, or it may be the sentence, which he utters. It would seem as though the art of writing and spelling, which presupposes some analysis of the sound of words, proved that the speaker, if capable of spelling and writing, must have at least some notion of those elements. But very little consideration will suffice to prove the contrary. In the first place, strictly speaking, it is absolutely impossible to denote in writing all the various elements of sound which combine to form any word or sentence. A word, however correctly and grammatically spelt, does not consist merely of those sounds which we symbolise in our writing. In reality it consists--or at least the syllable consists--of an _unbroken_ series of successive sounds or articulations, and of this series, even if we spell ‘phonetically,’ our letters represent at best no more than the most clearly distinguished points; whereas, between these sounds so symbolised by our letters, there lie an indefinite number of transition sounds, of which no writer or speller takes any notice. The above is true in the case of languages like Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and German, where the spelling is more or less consistent: much more is it true in the case of English or French, with their irrational and puzzling inconsistencies. A child which learns that it must represent the sound of the word _but_ by letters to be called respectively bee-you-tea, or the word _though_ by letters nick-named tea-aitch-o-you-gee-aitch, does not receive a lesson in separating the sound-group represented by the letters _but_ into its three, or the sound-group represented by _though_ into its two (or three) elements. Even in the more correctly spelt languages, there are numerous discrepancies between the spoken and written word, which, until they are pointed out to him, escape the attention of the native speaker or writer. In English, some instances may be here considered. Not a few English people are quite surprised when they are informed that they have two distinct ways of pronouncing _th_, or of pronouncing _x_: the _th_ ‘hard,’ as in _thin_, and ‘soft,’ as in _then_; the _x_ like _ks_, as in _execution_ (eksekyushion), and like _gz_, as in _executive_ (egzekyutiv), _exact_ (egzakt), _example_ (egzampl). And there are fewer still who have ever noticed that in _income_ many pronounce no _n_ at all, but the same guttural and nasal sound as terminates _king_. _Can_ is frequently pronounced _c^han_, with a distinct _h_ sound after the _c_, without the speaker being aware of it; and the same holds good of similar words. Again, none but the trained observer knows that the _k_ in _keen_ is pronounced differently (more to the front of the mouth) from the _k_ (represented by _c_) in _cool_; but the fact that perhaps more than all excites incredulous wonder is that the sound _i_ is no vowel, but a diphthong, as may be proved by dwelling on it. The speakers to whom these facts are new may nevertheless all be perfectly correct speakers: no doubt they pronounce the elements of the word; but they have probably never paid any attention to the nature of these elements, or at least have not begun to do so till long after the utterance became habitual and natural. If, then, we speak without consciousness of the separate _sounds_, much more are we completely unconscious of the _movements_ of our vocal organs. It is only very recently that these movements have been carefully investigated, and the results of the science of phonetics are in very many respects as yet _sub judice_, while even the most superficial knowledge of the subject can only be attained by a conscious and careful effort of attention, and by the exercise of much patience in the observation of our precise actions when speaking. It is only the trained observer who can at all follow these movements as he makes them, and even _he_ does not so follow them generally, but thinks of the sense of his words as he speaks, and not of the way in which they are produced. Moreover, even assuming that the speaker enjoyed a far higher degree of consciousness, both of phonetic elements and of phonetic movement while he is _acquiring_ the faculty of speech, it would none the less remain true that in the ordinary course of word-utterance these facts remain outside the speaker’s consciousness. A precisely parallel instance can be observed in the case of a pupil learning to play the piano or violin. At first every movement he makes is the result of a separate and conscious act of volition; but soon practice, the repetition of conscious action, so much facilitates the playing of scales, arpeggios, etc., that the rapidity of their execution quite precludes all possibility of the bestowal of separate thought, even of the shortest duration, upon each individual note in succession. It is necessary at the outset to insist on this fact of the speaker’s unconsciousness, both of the elements of sound which make up the word, and of the movements of his vocal organs; for, once fully grasped, it will guard against an error which is too prevalent, viz. that sound-change is the result of conscious volition in those who speak. But though the movements necessary for production of sounds are performed unconsciously, they are by no means beyond control; to illustrate which fact we may once more recur to the parallel instance of the piano-player. Like him, the speaker controls his work by listening to its result: but the player strikes either the right note or the wrong, and, unlike him, the speaker may vary his utterance in one direction or another without serious error; he is not considered to make a MISTAKE unless the difference between his present utterance and that which is usual exceeds a certain limit. In this respect, the violin-player resembles the speaker more closely. They both appeal to their sense of hearing in order to decide on the correctness or otherwise of the sound produced, and the control they can exercise over that sound is exactly proportional to their delicacy of ear. Up to certain limits, the variations are too small to be perceived by the ear, but beyond these, control becomes possible. The slight differences in pronunciation or sound do not yet, however, necessarily expose the speaker (or player) to the charge of incorrect utterance (or performance), and consequently, though he perceives the change, he pays little or no attention to it. He only then corrects himself or guards against repeating the ‘mistake,’ when the change in sound passes those limits which cannot be transgressed without detriment to what in music we term ‘harmony,’ or what in language we term ‘correctness of utterance.’ It commonly happens that these limits are wider than the limits of perception referred to above, more especially in the case of the speaker. A wider licence is accorded to the term ‘correctness’ in speech than is accorded to it in harmony. While, then, control is theoretically and practically limited, the possibility of variation is unlimited. Take, for instance, the case of the vowels. All the possible sounds and variations from _u_ (pronounced as _oo_ in _cool_) to _i_ (= _ee_ in _feel_) may be said to form one uninterrupted series. In this series we distinguish only some of the most important varieties. When we pronounce _u_, the lips are rounded, and the tongue is drawn back and raised at the back of the mouth: if we pass from _u_ to _i_, the lips are unrounded, and assume the shape of a narrow and much elongated ellipse, while the tongue is pushed forward with its back depressed and the fore-part (the blade) raised. While this change is going on, the mouth _never_ assumes a position with which we could not produce some vowel or other, but the difference in acoustic quality between any two ‘neighbouring’ vowels would not always be such that we should regard them as distinct or different sounds. On our way from _u_ to _i_, we pass through the positions for the _o_ (_oa_) in _coal_, the _ŏ_ in _god_, the _a_ in _father_, the _ĕ_ in _net_, the _e_ (_a_) in _hare_, the _ĭ_ in _pit_; but between these there lie an indefinite number of possible shades of sound, and every one knows how differently various speakers of the same community pronounce what we call the same vowel. So, too, we need but little attention to notice distinct occasional variations, at different moments, in the same speaker. If, then, one and the same speaker often _perceptibly_ (though unintentionally) varies his pronunciation, we may be perfectly sure that his mode of utterance will vary at different times within those limits where the divergence--though existing--is not noticed. As with the vowels, so it is, though not so completely, with many consonants and series of consonants. The student who is unacquainted with phonetics should pronounce _cool_ and _keen_ one after the other, or better still _coo_ and _kee_, getting rid of the final consonants. He will have no difficulty in noticing the difference between the two _k_ sounds, the first of which requires a much more backward position than the second for its pronunciation. After a little practice, he will be able to pronounce the first (back) _k_ with the _ee_ vowel, and the second (forward, palatal) _k_ with _oo_. Now, between these two sounds of _k_ there is a whole series of intermediate ones, and, if this series be followed in the direction of the palatal _k_ and then continued beyond it, we soon reach the articulation of the palatals proper, and pass, without any appreciable gap, to the linguo-dentals: first to the _t_ which, in words like the French _métier_, sounds so much like _q_ in the form _méquier_ (as the French Canadians actually pronounce it); and next to our own _t_, and to the usual French _t_, which is pronounced more to the front with the tip of the tongue against the roots of the teeth. Similarly, because perfect though slight closure is not remote from extreme narrowing, we can pass in a practically unbroken series from energetic _p_ to laxly uttered _f_, from _k_ to the guttural fricative of German _ach_--a sound which English, in its modern form, no longer possesses,--etc. As we noticed in the instance of _k_, and as every one more easily perceives in the case of the vowels, two sounds essentially different in articulation and in acoustic character are often, in daily speech, accepted as identical, more especially where the difference is not great enough, or is not of a nature to cause ambiguity of meaning. If, for instance, there existed words in the English language alike in all respects but that the one began with the _k_ of _cool_ and the other with the _k_ of _keen_, and if these words had different meanings, every Englishman would be aware of the existence of two sounds, which he would most likely indicate by two different letter-signs. As it is, the difference between the two remains unnoticed, and the choice between them depends upon the vowel which follows. If, then, in the ordinary course of speaking, a ‘back’ _k_ is pronounced a little more forward, or a palatal _k_ more to the back, no notice will be taken of it, unless the variation oversteps a certain limit and, as a consequence, the unusual articulation sounds strange. Similarly, for the formation of _t_, the position of the tongue may be varied to a very great extent, and yet, though something unusual in the sound MAY be apprehended, the result will always be perceived as a _t_. We must now once more emphasise the fact that the memory-picture of the sound, and the (unconscious) memory-picture of the movement and position, and these two alone, connect the various utterances of any sound or sound-group, and decide its character, and the appreciation of speaker and hearer to its correctness. These memory-pictures and their nature and growth are therefore of the highest importance. They are the results of _all_ preceding cases of utterance, _of which, however, the last always has the greatest influence_. Every variation in pronunciation entails a variation in the memory-picture; and this, small as may be the change, is cumulative and permanent, unless the different deviations happen to balance one another exactly. Now, in the main this will be the case when the speaker finds himself amid his usual surroundings, and where no external causes co-operate to impel his deviations into one direction rather than into another: but let us suppose him transferred to another community, and brought in contact with a certain pronunciation habitual there and novel to him. His memory-picture of the SOUND is made up of his own pronunciation _and_ of what he hears from others. At first the new pronunciation strikes him as new, and _two_ pictures stand side by side in his mind. If, however, the difference be not too great, these soon blend, and, the former one fading while the other constantly gains in force, his pronunciation becomes influenced without his own knowledge; he pronounces more and more like the surrounding speakers, and every time he does so his memory-picture of POSITION gets slightly altered (always in the same direction) until nothing but conscious effort of memory or renewed intercourse with former surroundings can recall the one thus lost. The same thing happens essentially and effectually, though the change is slower and less violent, where external causes favour deviation in any special direction amongst an entire community. As far as the nature of the effect goes, it can make no difference whether we consider the case of a man entering a new community to find there a pronunciation which differs from his own, or that of an entire community which alters its existing pronunciation. But the process will go on much more slowly in the latter case, since it has to operate in a number of individuals, and the steps by which each of them proceeds are in ordinary cases imperceptibly small. Of all causes which may tend to alter our pronunciation in any special direction, facility of utterance is the most conspicuous and the most easily understood. There are, in all probability indeed, several others: climate, habits of diet, etc., all _seem_ to have some effect, but no one has as yet been able to explain how they operate. Even ease of pronunciation is not yet thoroughly understood in all its bearings. We must not forget that ease is something essentially subjective, and that the memory-pictures of movement and sound and the attempt at correct reproduction of the usual movement and sound are the main factors, while the striving after facility of utterance is a very subordinate one. Yet there is no doubt whatever that in a number of instances the new pronunciation is easier than its predecessor: we now say _last_ instead of _latst_, examples of which earlier form may be found in the Ormulum, for instance. Similarly, _best_ is easier than _betst_, _impossible_ than _inpossible_; and we may refer also to the numerous words still written with a _gh_ which is no longer pronounced. In the word _knight_, the _k_ was formerly sounded before the _n_, and the _gh_ represents a sound which may still be heard in the German word _knecht_; and, in fact, all spellings like _know_, _gnat_, _night_, _though_, etc., with their numerous mute letters, represent older and undoubtedly more laborious pronunciations. That all these sounds have been dropped has unquestionably facilitated the utterance of the words, and there is a similar gain of ease in all the well-known instances of complete or partial assimilation in all languages. So in Italian _otto_ for Latin _octo_, Latin _accendo_ for _adcendo_, etc. When, however, we come to estimate the comparative facility of separate single sounds, or even many combinations, we find ourselves as yet without any certainty of result or fixed standard. Much that has been advanced is individual and subjective: all depends on practice; and this practice we acquire at an age when we are as yet wholly unable to form or pronounce an opinion on any question. In fact, most of our facility of speech comes to us in infancy. But whatever the cause, we now understand that the memory-picture of movement and position is shifting and unstable in its very nature. Unless the majority of pronunciations around us all alter in the same direction, the _sound_-picture does not alter, and it exerts a retarding control upon the rapidity with which our _position_-picture, and therewith our own pronunciation, might otherwise do so. Here, however, we must draw attention to the fact that we spoke of the majority of _pronunciations_ around us and not of speakers. For our sound-picture the number of persons from whom we hear a word is immaterial; it is the number of times we hear it pronounced that is alone of importance. All that we have hitherto said has had reference to changes of pronunciation in _the same speaker_, and in this case alone can we speak of alteration or change in the strict sense of the word. But when we say that ‘a language has altered,’ we use the term in a wider sense, and include the case when one generation is found to use a new pronunciation in place of one current at a former time; when, in fact, it would be strictly correct to say that an old pronunciation has died out, and that the new one--created instead--differs more or less from that which was its model. A child, in learning to speak, attempts to imitate the sound it hears; and, as long as the resulting imitation _sounds_ sufficiently correct, any small peculiarity of pronunciation is generally overlooked. In such a case, therefore, the child acquires a movement or position-picture which at once materially differs from that of the former generation. We all know by experience that sounds are difficult to ‘catch,’ and we must remember that the vocal organs may undergo certain variations in position without producing a correspondingly large difference in acoustic effect;[4] and further, that any sound produced by a particular position of the vocal organs has a tendency to change in a different direction and at a different rate from the course which would seem natural to the same sound if it had been produced by a different position of the vocal organs. If, then, we speak a word to a child, and if the child utters it (_a_) with a slightly altered pronunciation, and (_b_) with an articulation which differs from that which WE should naturally employ to produce the pronunciation which the child gives to the word, then two comparatively important steps upon the path of change have already been taken. And thus it is clear that, though changes in language are constantly and imperceptibly occurring throughout the whole life of the individual speaker, yet their rise is most likely and their progress is most rapid at the time when language is transferred from one generation to another. The above, however, will not explain all the changes
ar Gold-Tree," said the deceitful Queen, "at least put thy little finger through the keyhole that I may kiss it." The Princess did so, never dreaming that evil could come to her through such a simple action. But it did. For instead of kissing the tiny finger, her step-mother stabbed it with a poisoned needle, and, so deadly was the poison, that, before she could utter a single cry, the poor Princess fell, as one dead, on the floor. When she heard the fall, a smile of satisfaction crept over Queen Silver-Tree's face. "Now I can say that I am the handsomest woman in the world," she whispered; and she went back to the lackey who stood waiting at the end of the passage, and told him that she had said all that she had to say to her daughter, and that now she must return home. So the man attended her to the boat with all due ceremony, and she set sail for her own country; and no one in the Castle knew that any harm had befallen their dear Mistress until the Prince came home from his hunting with the key of the Mullioned Chamber, which he had taken from his sheep-dog's neck, in his hand. [Illustration] He laughed when he heard the story of Queen Silver-Tree's visit, and told the servants that they had done well; then he ran upstairs to open the door and release his wife. But what was his horror and dismay, when he did so, to find her lying dead at his feet on the floor. He was nearly beside himself with rage and grief; and, because he knew that a deadly poison such as Queen Silver-Tree had used would preserve the Princess's body so that it had no need of burial, he had it laid on a silken couch and left in the Mullioned Chamber, so that he could go and look at it whenever he pleased. He was so terribly lonely, however, that in a little time he married again, and his second wife was just as sweet and as good as the first one had been. This new wife was very happy, there was only one little thing that caused her any trouble at all, and she was too sensible to let it make her miserable. That one thing was that there was one room in the Castle--a room which stood at the end of a passage by itself--which she could never enter, as her husband always carried the key. And as, when she asked him the reason of this, he always made an excuse of some kind, she made up her mind that she would not seem as if she did not trust him, so she asked no more questions about the matter. But one day the Prince chanced to leave the door unlocked, and as he had never told her not to do so, she went in, and there she saw Princess Gold-Tree lying on the silken couch, looking as if she were asleep. "Is she dead, or is she only sleeping?" she said to herself, and she went up to the couch and looked closely at the Princess. And there, sticking in her little finger, she discovered a curiously shaped needle. "There hath been evil work here," she thought to herself. "If that needle be not poisoned, then I know naught of medicine." And, being skilled in leechcraft, she drew it carefully out. In a moment Princess Gold-Tree opened her eyes and sat up, and presently she had recovered sufficiently to tell the Other Princess the whole story. Now, if her step-mother had been jealous, the Other Princess was not jealous at all; for, when she heard all that had happened, she clapped her little hands, crying, "Oh, how glad the Prince will be; for although he hath married again, I know that he loves thee best." That night the Prince came home from hunting looking very tired and sad, for what his second wife had said was quite true. Although he loved her very much, he was always mourning in his heart for his first dear love, Princess Gold-Tree. "How sad thou art!" exclaimed his wife, going out to meet him. "Is there nothing that I can do to bring a smile to thy face?" "Nothing," answered the Prince wearily, laying down his bow, for he was too heart-sore even to pretend to be gay. "Except to give thee back Gold-Tree," said his wife mischievously. "And that can I do. Thou wilt find her alive and well in the Mullioned Chamber." Without a word the Prince ran upstairs, and, sure enough, there was his dear Gold-Tree, sitting on the couch ready to welcome him. He was so overjoyed to see her that he threw his arms round her neck and kissed her over and over again, quite forgetting his poor second wife, who had followed him upstairs, and who now stood watching the meeting that she had brought about. She did not seem to be sorry for herself, however. "I always knew that thy heart yearned after Princess Gold-Tree," she said. "And it is but right that it should be so. For she was thy first love, and, since she hath come to life again, I will go back to mine own people." "No, indeed thou wilt not," answered the Prince, "for it is thou who hast brought me this joy. Thou wilt stay with us, and we shall all three live happily together. And Gold-Tree and thee will become great friends." And so it came to pass. For Princess Gold-Tree and the Other Princess soon became like sisters, and loved each other as if they had been brought up together all their lives. In this manner another year passed away, and one evening, in the old country, Queen Silver-Tree went, as she had done before, to look at her face in the water of the little well in the glen. And, as had happened twice before, the trout was there. "Troutie, troutie," she whispered, "am not I the most beautiful woman in the world?" "By my troth, thou art not," answered the trout, as he had answered on the two previous occasions. "And who dost thou say is the most beautiful woman now?" asked the Queen, her voice trembling with rage and vexation. "I have given her name to thee these two years back," answered the trout. "The Princess Gold-Tree, of course." "But she is dead," laughed the Queen. "I am sure of it this time, for it is just a year since I stabbed her little finger with a poisoned needle, and I heard her fall down dead on the floor." "I would not be so sure of that," answered the trout, and without saying another word he dived straight down to the bottom of the well. After hearing his mysterious words the Queen could not rest, and at last she asked her husband to have the Long Ship prepared once more, so that she could go and see her step-daughter. The King gave the order gladly; and it all happened as it had happened before. She steered the Ship over the sea with her own hands, and when it was approaching the land it was seen and recognised by Princess Gold-Tree. The Prince was out hunting, and the Princess ran, in great terror, to her friend, the Other Princess, who was upstairs in her chamber. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" she cried, "for I see my father's Long Ship coming, and I know that my cruel step-mother is on board, and she will try to kill me, as she tried to kill me before. Oh! come, let us escape to the hills." "Not at all," replied the Other Princess, throwing her arms round the trembling Gold-Tree. "I am not afraid of thy Lady Step-Mother. Come with me, and we will go down to the sea shore to greet her." So they both went down to the edge of the water, and when Queen Silver-Tree saw her step-daughter coming she pretended to be very glad, and sprang out of the boat and ran to meet her, and held out a silver goblet full of wine for her to drink. "'Tis rare wine from the East," she said, "and therefore very precious. I brought a flagon with me, so that we might pledge each other in a loving cup." Princess Gold-Tree, who was ever gentle and courteous, would have stretched out her hand for the cup, had not the Other Princess stepped between her and her step-mother. "Nay, Madam," she said gravely, looking the Queen straight in the face; "it is the custom in this land for the one who offers a loving cup to drink from it first herself." "I will follow the custom gladly," answered the Queen, and she raised the goblet to her mouth. But the Other Princess, who was watching for closely, noticed that she did not allow the wine that it contained to touch her lips. So she stepped forward and, as if by accident, struck the bottom of the goblet with her shoulder. Part of its contents flew into the Queen's face, and part, before she could shut her mouth, went down her throat. So, because of her wickedness, she was, as the Good Book says, caught in her own net. For she had made the wine so poisonous that, almost before she had swallowed it, she fell dead at the two Princesses' feet. No one was sorry for her, for she really deserved her fate; and they buried her hastily in a lonely piece of ground, and very soon everybody had forgotten all about her. As for Princess Gold-Tree, she lived happily and peacefully with her husband and her friend for the remainder of her life. [Illustration] WHIPPETY-STOURIE I am going to tell you a story about a poor young widow woman, who lived in a house called Kittlerumpit, though whereabouts in Scotland the house of Kittlerumpit stood nobody knows. Some folk think that it stood in the neighbourhood of the Debateable Land, which, as all the world knows, was on the Borders, where the old Border Reivers were constantly coming and going; the Scotch stealing from the English, and the English from the Scotch. Be that as it may, the widowed Mistress of Kittlerumpit was sorely to be pitied. For she had lost her husband, and no one quite knew what had become of him. He had gone to a fair one day, and had never come back again, and although everybody believed that he was dead, no one knew how he died. Some people said that he had been persuaded to enlist, and had been killed in the wars; others, that he had been taken away to serve as a sailor by the press-gang, and had been drowned at sea. At any rate, his poor young wife was sorely to be pitied, for she was left with a little baby-boy to bring up, and, as times were bad, she had not much to live on. But she loved her baby dearly, and worked all day amongst her cows, and pigs, and hens, in order to earn enough money to buy food and clothes for both herself and him. Now, on the morning of which I am speaking, she rose very early and went out to feed her pigs, for rent-day was coming on, and she intended to take one of them, a great, big, fat creature, to the market that very day, as she thought that the price that it would fetch would go a long way towards paying her rent. And because she thought so, her heart was light, and she hummed a little song to herself as she crossed the yard with her bucket on one arm and her baby-boy on the other. But the song was quickly changed into a cry of despair when she reached the pig-stye, for there lay her cherished pig on its back, with its legs in the air and its eyes shut, just as if it were going to breathe its last breath. "What shall I do? What shall I do?" cried the poor woman, sitting down on a big stone and clasping her boy to her breast, heedless of the fact that she had dropped her bucket, and that the pig's-meat was running out, and that the hens were eating it. "First I lost my husband, and now I am going to lose my finest pig. The pig that I hoped would fetch a deal of money." Now I must explain to you that the house of Kittlerumpit stood on a hillside, with a great fir wood behind it, and the ground sloping down steeply in front. And as the poor young thing, after having a good cry to herself, was drying her eyes, she chanced to look down the hill, and who should she see coming up it but an Old Woman, who looked like a lady born. She was dressed all in green, with a white apron, and she wore a black velvet hood on her head, and a steeple-crowned beaver hat over that, something like those, as I have heard tell, that the women wear in Wales. She walked very slowly, leaning on a long staff, and she gave a bit hirple now and then, as if she were lame. As she drew near, the young widow felt it was becoming to rise and curtsey to the Gentlewoman, for such she saw her to be. "Madam," she said, with a sob in her voice, "I bid you welcome to the house of Kittlerumpit, although you find its Mistress one of the most unfortunate women in the world." "Hout-tout," answered the old Lady, in such a harsh voice that the young woman started, and grasped her baby tighter in her arms. "Ye have little need to say that. Ye have lost your husband, I grant ye, but there were waur losses at Shirra-Muir. And now your pig is like to die--I could, maybe, remedy that. But I must first hear how much ye wad gie me if I cured him." "Anything that your Ladyship's Madam likes to ask," replied the widow, too much delighted at having the animal's life saved to think that she was making rather a rash promise. "Very good," said the old Dame, and without wasting any more words she walked straight into the pig-sty. She stood and looked at the dying creature for some minutes, rocking to and fro and muttering to herself in words which the widow could not understand; at least, she could only understand four of them, and they sounded something like this: "Pitter-patter, Haly water." Then she put her hand into her pocket and drew out a tiny bottle with a liquid that looked like oil in it. She took the cork out, and dropped one of her long lady-like fingers into it; then she touched the pig on the snout and on his ears, and on the tip of his curly tail. No sooner had she done so than up the beast jumped, and, with a grunt of contentment, ran off to its trough to look for its breakfast. A joyful woman was the Mistress of Kittlerumpit when she saw it do this, for she felt that her rent was safe; and in her relief and gratitude she would have kissed the hem of the strange Lady's green gown, if she would have allowed it, but she would not. "No, no," said she, and her voice sounded harsher than ever. "Let us have no fine meanderings, but let us stick to our bargain. I have done my part, and mended the pig; now ye must do yours, and give me what I like to ask--your son." Then the poor widow gave a piteous cry, for she knew now what she had not guessed before--that the Green-clad Lady was a Fairy, and a Wicked Fairy too, else had she not asked such a terrible thing. It was too late now, however, to pray, and beseech, and beg for mercy; the Fairy stood her ground, hard and cruel. "Ye promised me what I liked to ask, and I have asked your son; and your son I will have," she replied, "so it is useless making such a din about it. But one thing I may tell you, for I know well that the knowledge will not help you. By the laws of Fairy-land, I cannot take the bairn till the third day after this, and if by that time you have found out my name I cannot take him even then. But ye will not be able to find it out, of that I am certain. So I will call back for the boy in three days." And with that she disappeared round the back of the pig-sty, and the poor mother fell down in a dead faint beside the stone. All that day, and all the next, she did nothing but sit in her kitchen and cry, and hug her baby tighter in her arms; but on the day before that on which the Fairy said that she was coming back, she felt as if she must get a little breath of fresh air, so she went for a walk in the fir wood behind the house. Now in this fir wood there was an old quarry hole, in the bottom of which was a bonnie spring well, the water of which was always sweet and pure. The young widow was walking near this quarry hole, when, to her astonishment, she heard the whirr of a spinning-wheel and the sound of a voice lilting a song. At first she could not think where the sound came from; then, remembering the quarry, she laid down her child at a tree root, and crept noiselessly through the bushes on her hands and knees to the edge of the hole and peeped over. She could hardly believe her eyes! For there, far below her, at the bottom of the quarry, beside the spring well, sat the cruel Fairy, dressed in her green frock and tall felt hat, spinning away as fast as she could at a tiny spinning-wheel. And what should she be singing but-- "Little kens our guid dame at hame, Whippety-Stourie is my name." The widow woman almost cried aloud for joy, for now she had learned the Fairy's secret, and her child was safe. But she dare not, in case the wicked old Dame heard her and threw some other spell over her. So she crept softly back to the place where she had left her child; then, catching him up in her arms, she ran through the wood to her house, laughing, and singing, and tossing him in the air in such a state of delight that, if anyone had met her, they would have been in danger of thinking that she was mad. Now this young woman had been a merry-hearted maiden, and would have been merry-hearted still, if, since her marriage, she had not had so much trouble that it had made her grow old and sober-minded before her time; and she began to think what fun it would be to tease the Fairy for a few minutes before she let her know that she had found out her name. So next day, at the appointed time, she went out with her boy in her arms, and seated herself on the big stone where she had sat before; and when she saw the old Dame coming up the hill, she crumpled up her nice clean cap, and screwed up her face, and pretended to be in great distress and to be crying bitterly. The Fairy took no notice of this, however, but came close up to her, and said, in her harsh, merciless voice, "Good wife of Kittlerumpit, ye ken the reason of my coming; give me the bairn." Then the young mother pretended to be in sorer distress than ever, and fell on her knees before the wicked old woman and begged for mercy. "Oh, sweet Madam Mistress," she cried, "spare me my bairn, and take, an' thou wilt, the pig instead." "We have no need of bacon where I come from," answered the Fairy coldly; "so give me the laddie and let me begone--I have no time to waste in this wise." "Oh, dear Lady mine," pleaded the Goodwife, "if thou wilt not have the pig, wilt thou not spare my poor bairn and take me myself?" The Fairy stepped back a little, as if in astonishment. "Art thou mad, woman," she cried contemptuously, "that thou proposest such a thing? Who in all the world would care to take a plain-looking, red-eyed, dowdy wife like thee with them?" Now the young Mistress of Kittlerumpit knew that she was no beauty, and the knowledge had never vexed her; but something in the Fairy's tone made her feel so angry that she could contain herself no longer. "In troth, fair Madam, I might have had the wit to know that the like of me is not fit to tie the shoe-string of the High and Mighty Princess, WHIPPETY-STOURIE!" If there had been a charge of gunpowder buried in the ground, and if it had suddenly exploded beneath her feet, the Wicked Fairy could not have jumped higher into air. And when she came down again she simply turned round and ran down the brae, shrieking with rage and disappointment, for all the world, as an old book says, "like an owl chased by witches." [Illustration] THE RED-ETIN There were once two widows who lived in two cottages which stood not very far from one another. And each of those widows possessed a piece of land on which she grazed a cow and a few sheep, and in this way she made her living. One of these poor widows had two sons, the other had one; and as these three boys were always together, it was natural that they should become great friends. At last the time arrived when the eldest son of the widow who had two sons, must leave home and go out into the world to seek his fortune. And the night before he went away his mother told him to take a can and go to the well and bring back some water, and she would bake a cake for him to carry with him. "But remember," she added, "the size of the cake will depend on the quantity of water that thou bringest back. If thou bringest much, then will it be large; and, if thou bringest little, then will it be small. But, big or little, it is all that I have to give thee." The lad took the can and went off to the well, and filled it with water, and came home again. But he never noticed that the can had a hole in it, and was running out; so that, by the time that he arrived at home, there was very little water left. So his mother could only bake him a very little cake. But, small as it was, she asked him, as she gave it to him, to choose one of two things. Either to take the half of it with her blessing, or the whole of it with her malison. "For," said she, "thou canst not have both the whole cake and a blessing along with it." The lad looked at the cake and hesitated. It would have been pleasant to have left home with his mother's blessing upon him; but he had far to go, and the cake was little; the half of it would be a mere mouthful, and he did not know when he would get any more food. So at last he made up his mind to take the whole of it, even if he had to bear his mother's malison. Then he took his younger brother aside, and gave him his hunting-knife, saying, "Keep this by thee, and look at it every morning. For as long as the blade remains clear and bright, thou wilt know that it is well with me; but should it grow dim and rusty, then know thou that some evil hath befallen me." After this he embraced them both and set out on his travels. He journeyed all that day, and all the next, and on the afternoon of the third day he came to where an old shepherd was sitting beside a flock of sheep. "I will ask the old man whose sheep they are," he said to himself, "for mayhap his master might engage me also as a shepherd." So he went up to the old man, and asked him to whom the sheep belonged. And this was all the answer he got: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "It's said there's ane predestinate To be his mortal foe, But that man is yet unborn, And lang may it be so." "That does not tell me much; but somehow I do not fancy this Red-Etin for a master," thought the youth, and he went on his way. He had not gone very far, however, when he saw another old man, with snow-white hair, herding a flock of swine; and as he wondered to whom the swine belonged, and if there was any chance of him getting a situation as a swineherd, he went up to the countryman, and asked who was the owner of the animals. He got the same answer from the swineherd that he had got from the shepherd: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "It's said there's ane predestinate To be his mortal foe, But that man is yet unborn, And lang may it be so." "Plague on this old Red-Etin; I wonder when I will get out of his domains," he muttered to himself; and he journeyed still further. Presently he came to a very, very old man--so old, indeed, that he was quite bent with age--and he was herding a flock of goats. Once more the traveller asked to whom the animals belonged, and once more he got the same answer: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "It's said there's ane predestinate To be his mortal foe, But that man is yet unborn, And lang may it be so." But this ancient goatherd added a piece of advice at the end of his rhyme. "Beware, stranger," he said, "of the next herd of beasts that ye shall meet. Sheep, and swine, and goats will harm nobody; but the creatures ye shall now encounter are of a sort that ye have never met before, and _they_ are not harmless." The young man thanked him for his counsel, and went on his way, and he had not gone very far before he met a herd of very dreadful creatures, unlike anything that he had ever dreamed of in all his life. For each of them had three heads, and on each of its three heads it had four horns; and when he saw them he was so frightened that he turned and ran away from them as fast as he could. Up hill and down dale he ran, until he was well-nigh exhausted; and, just when he was beginning to feel that his legs would not carry him any further, he saw a great Castle in front of him, the door of which was standing wide open. He was so tired that he went straight in, and after wandering through some magnificent halls, which appeared to be quite deserted, he reached the kitchen, where an old woman was sitting by the fire. He asked her if he might have a night's lodging, as he had come a long and weary journey, and would be glad of somewhere to rest. "You can rest here, and welcome, for me," said the old Dame, "but for your own sake I warn you that this is an ill house to bide in; for it is the Castle of the Red-Etin, who is a fierce and terrible Monster with three heads, and he spareth neither man nor woman, if he can get hold of them." Tired as he was, the young man would have made an effort to escape from such a dangerous abode had he not remembered the strange and awful beasts from which he had just been fleeing, and he was afraid that, as it was growing dark, if he set out again he might chance to walk right into their midst. So he begged the old woman to hide him in some dark corner, and not to tell the Red-Etin that he was in the Castle. "For," thought he, "if I can only get shelter until the morning, I will then be able to avoid these terrible creatures and go on my way in peace." So the old Dame hid him in a press under the back stairs, and, as there was plenty of room in it, he settled down quite comfortably for the night. But just as he was going off to sleep he heard an awful roaring and trampling overhead. The Red-Etin had come home, and it was plain that he was searching for something. And the terrified youth soon found out what the "Something" was, for very soon the horrible Monster came into the kitchen, crying out in a voice like thunder: "Seek but, and seek ben, I smell the smell of an earthly man! Be he living, or be he dead, His heart this night I shall eat with my bread." And it was not very long before he discovered the poor young man's hiding-place and pulled him roughly out of it. Of course, the lad begged that his life might be spared, but the Monster only laughed at him. "It will be spared if thou canst answer three questions," he said; "if not, it is forfeited." The first of these three questions was, "Whether Ireland or Scotland was first inhabited?" The second, "How old was the world when Adam was made?" And the third, "Whether men or beasts were created first?" The lad was not skilled in such matters, having had but little book-learning, and he could not answer the questions. So the Monster struck him on the head with a queer little hammer which he carried, and turned him into a piece of stone. Now every morning since he had left home his younger brother had done as he had promised, and had carefully examined his hunting-knife. On the first two mornings it was bright and clear, but on the third morning he was very much distressed to find that it was dull and rusty. He looked at it for a few moments in great dismay; then he ran straight to his mother, and held it out to her. "By this token I know that some mischief hath befallen my brother," he said, "so I must set out at once to see what evil hath come upon him." "First must thou go to the well and fetch me some water," said his mother, "that I may bake thee a cake to carry with thee, as I baked a cake for him who is gone. And I will say to thee what I said to him. That the cake will be large or small according as thou bringest much or little water back with thee." So the lad took the can, as his brother had done, and went off to the well, and it seemed as if some evil spirit directed him to follow his example in all things, for he brought home little water, and he chose the whole cake and his mother's malison, instead of the half and her blessing, and he set out and met the shepherd, and the swineherd, and the goatherd, and they all gave the same answers to him which they had given to his brother. And he also encountered the same fierce beasts, and ran from them in terror, and took shelter from them in the Castle; and the old woman hid him, and the Red-Etin found him, and, because he could not answer the three questions, he, too, was turned into a pillar of stone. And no more would ever have been heard of these two youths had not a kind Fairy, who had seen all that had happened, appeared to the other widow and her son, as they were sitting at supper one night in the gloaming, and told them the whole story, and how their two poor young neighbours had been turned into pillars of stone by a cruel enchanter called Red-Etin. Now the third young man was both brave and strong, and he determined to set out to see if he could in anywise help his two friends. And, from the very first moment that he had made up his mind to do so, things went differently with him than they had with them. I think, perhaps, that this was because he was much more loving and thoughtful than they were. For, when his mother sent him to fetch water from the well so that she might bake a cake for him, just as the other mother had done for her sons, a raven, flying above his head, croaked out that his can was leaking, and he, wishing to please his mother by bringing her a good supply of water, patched up the hole with clay, and so came home with the can quite full. Then, when his mother had baked a big bannock for him, and giving him his choice between the whole cake and her malison, or half of it and her blessing, he chose the latter, "for," said he, throwing his arms round her neck, "I may light on other cakes to eat, but I will never light on another blessing such as thine." And the curious thing was, that, after he had said this, the half cake which he had chosen seemed to spread itself out, and widen, and broaden, till it was bigger by far than it had been at first. Then he started on his journey, and, after he had gone a good way he began to feel hungry. So he pulled it out of his pocket and began to eat it. Just then he met an old woman, who seemed to be very poor, for her clothing was thin, and worn, and old, and she stopped and spoke to him. "Of thy charity, kind Master," she said, stretching out one of her withered hands, "spare me a bit of the cake that thou art eating." Now the youth was very hungry, and he could have eaten it all himself, but his kind heart was touched by the woman's pinched face, so he broke it in two, and gave her half of it. Instantly she was changed into the Fairy who had appeared to his mother and himself as they had sat at supper the night before, and she smiled graciously at the generous lad, and held out a little wand to him. "Though thou knowest it not, thy mother's blessing and thy kindness to an old and poor woman hath gained thee many blessings, brave boy," he said. "Keep that as thy reward; thou wilt need it ere thy errand be done." Then, bidding him sit down on the grass beside her, she told him all the dangers that he would meet on his travels, and the way in which he could overcome them, and then, in a moment, before he could thank her, she vanished out of his sight. But with the little wand, and all the instructions that she had given him, he felt that he could face fearlessly any danger that he might be called on to meet, so he rose from the grass and went his way, full of a cheerful courage. After he had walked for many miles further, he came, as each of his friends had done, to the old shepherd herding his sheep. And, like them, he asked to whom the sheep belonged. And this time the old man answered: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "But now I fear his end is near, And destiny at hand; And you're to be, I plainly see, The heir of all his land." Then the young man went on, and he came to the swineherd, and to the goatherd; and each of them in turn repeated the same words to him. And, when he came to where the droves of monstrous beasts were, he
utary to the Cher, near to the royal Castle of Plessis les Tours, whose dark and multiplied battlements rose in the background over the extensive forest with which they were surrounded. These woodlands comprised a noble chase, or royal park, fenced by an enclosure, termed, in the Latin of the middle ages, Plexitium, which gives the name of Plessis to so many villages in France. The castle and village of which we particularly speak, was called Plessis les Tours, to distinguish it from others, and was built about two miles to the southward of the fair town of that name, the capital of ancient Touraine, whose rich plain has been termed the Garden of France. On the bank of the above mentioned brook, opposite to that which the traveller was approaching, two men, who appeared in deep conversation, seemed, from time to time, to watch his motions; for, as their station was much more elevated, they could remark him at considerable distance. The age of the young traveller might be about nineteen, or betwixt that and twenty; and his face and person, which were very prepossessing, did not, however, belong to the country in which he was now a sojourner. His short gray cloak and hose were rather of Flemish than of French fashion, while the smart blue bonnet, with a single sprig of holly and an eagle's feather, was already recognized as the Scottish head gear. His dress was very neat, and arranged with the precision of a youth conscious of possessing a fine person. He had at his back a satchel, which seemed to contain a few necessaries, a hawking gauntlet on his left hand, though he carried no bird, and in his right a stout hunter's pole. Over his left shoulder hung an embroidered scarf which sustained a small pouch of scarlet velvet, such as was then used by fowlers of distinction to carry their hawks' food, and other matters belonging to that much admired sport. This was crossed by another shoulder belt, to which was hung a hunting knife, or couteau de chasse. Instead of the boots of the period, he wore buskins of half dressed deer's skin. Although his form had not yet attained its full strength, he was tall and active, and the lightness of the step with which he advanced, showed that his pedestrian mode of travelling was pleasure rather than pain to him. His complexion was fair, in spite of a general shade of darker hue, with which the foreign sun, or perhaps constant exposure to the atmosphere in his own country, had, in some degree, embrowned it. His features, without being quite regular, were frank, open, and pleasing. A half smile, which seemed to arise from a happy exuberance of animal spirits, showed now and then that his teeth were well set, and as pure as ivory; whilst his bright blue eye, with a corresponding gaiety, had an appropriate glance for every object which it encountered, expressing good humour, lightness of heart, and determined resolution. He received and returned the salutation of the few travellers who frequented the road in those dangerous times with the action which suited each. The strolling spearman, half soldier, half brigand, measured the youth with his eye, as if balancing the prospect of booty with the chance of desperate resistance; and read such indications of the latter in the fearless glance of the passenger, that he changed his ruffian purpose for a surly “Good morrow, comrade,” which the young Scot answered with as martial, though a less sullen tone. The wandering pilgrim, or the begging friar, answered his reverent greeting with a paternal benedicite [equivalent to the English expression, “Bless you.”]; and the dark eyed peasant girl looked after him for many a step after they had passed each other, and interchanged a laughing good morrow. In short, there was an attraction about his whole appearance not easily escaping attention, and which was derived from the combination of fearless frankness and good humour, with sprightly looks and a handsome face and person. It seemed, too, as if his whole demeanour bespoke one who was entering on life with no apprehension of the evils with which it is beset, and small means for struggling with its hardships, except a lively spirit and a courageous disposition; and it is with such tempers that youth most readily sympathizes, and for whom chiefly age and experience feel affectionate and pitying interest. The youth whom we have described had been long visible to the two persons who loitered on the opposite side of the small river which divided him from the park and the castle; but as he descended the rugged bank to the water's edge, with the light step of a roe which visits the fountain, the younger of the two said to the other, “It is our man--it is the Bohemian! If he attempts to cross the ford, he is a lost man--the water is up, and the ford impassable.” “Let him make that discovery himself, gossip [an intimate friend or companion (obsolete)],” said the elder personage; “it may, perchance, save a rope and break a proverb [refers to the old saw, 'Who is born to be hanged will never be drowned.'].” “I judge him by the blue cap,” said the other, “for I cannot see his face. Hark, sir; he hallooes to know whether the water be deep.” “Nothing like experience in this world,” answered the other, “let him try.” The young man, in the meanwhile, receiving no hint to the contrary, and taking the silence of those to whom he applied as an encouragement to proceed, entered the stream without farther hesitation than the delay necessary to take off his buskins. The elder person, at the same moment, hallooed to him to beware, adding, in a lower tone, to his companion, “Mortdieu--gossip--you have made another mistake--this is not the Bohemian chatterer.” But the intimation to the youth came too late. He either did not hear or could not profit by it, being already in the deep stream. To one less alert and practised in the exercise of swimming, death had been certain, for the brook was both deep and strong. “By Saint Anne! but he is a proper youth,” said the elder man. “Run, gossip, and help your blunder, by giving him aid, if thou canst. He belongs to thine own troop--if old saws speak truth, water will not drown him.” Indeed, the young traveller swam so strongly, and buffeted the waves so well, that, notwithstanding the strength of the current, he was carried but a little way down from the ordinary landing place. By this time the younger of the two strangers was hurrying down to the shore to render assistance, while the other followed him at a graver pace, saying to himself as he approached, “I knew water would never drown that young fellow.--By my halidome [originally something regarded as sacred, as a relic; formerly much used in solemn oaths], he is ashore, and grasps his pole!--If I make not the more haste, he will beat my gossip for the only charitable action which I ever saw him perform, or attempt to perform, in the whole course of his life.” There was some reason to augur such a conclusion of the adventure, for the bonny Scot had already accosted the younger Samaritan, who was hastening to his assistance, with these ireful words: “Discourteous dog! why did you not answer when I called to know if the passage was fit to be attempted? May the foul fiend catch me, but I will teach you the respect due to strangers on the next occasion.” This was accompanied with that significant flourish with his pole which is called le moulinet, because the artist, holding it in the middle, brandishes the two ends in every direction like the sails of a windmill in motion. His opponent, seeing himself thus menaced, laid hand upon his sword, for he was one of those who on all occasions are more ready for action than for speech; but his more considerate comrade, who came up, commanded him to forbear, and, turning to the young man, accused him in turn of precipitation in plunging into the swollen ford, and of intemperate violence in quarrelling with a man who was hastening to his assistance. The young man, on hearing himself thus reproved by a man of advanced age and respectable appearance, immediately lowered his weapon, and said he would be sorry if he had done them injustice; but, in reality, it appeared to him as if they had suffered him to put his life in peril for want of a word of timely warning, which could be the part neither of honest men nor of good Christians, far less of respectable burgesses, such as they seemed to be. “Fair son,” said the elder person, “you seem, from your accent and complexion, a stranger; and you should recollect your dialect is not so easily comprehended by us; as perhaps it may be uttered by you.” “Well, father,” answered the youth, “I do not care much about the ducking I have had, and I will readily forgive your being partly the cause, provided you will direct me to some place where I can have my clothes dried; for it is my only suit, and I must keep it somewhat decent.” “For whom do you take us, fair son?” said the elder stranger, in answer to this question. “For substantial burgesses, unquestionably,” said the youth; “or--hold; you, master, may be a money broker, or a corn merchant; and this man a butcher, or grazier.” “You have hit our capacities rarely,” said the elder, smiling. “My business is indeed to trade in as much money as I can and my gossip's dealings are somewhat of kin to the butcher's. As to your accommodation we will try to serve you; but I must first know who you are, and whither you are going, for, in these times, the roads are filled with travellers on foot and horseback, who have anything in their head but honesty and the fear of God.” The young man cast another keen and penetrating glance on him who spoke, and on his silent companion, as if doubtful whether they, on their part, merited the confidence they demanded; and the result of his observation was as follows. The eldest and most remarkable of these men in dress and appearance, resembled the merchant or shopkeeper of the period. His jerkin, hose, and cloak were of a dark uniform colour, but worn so threadbare that the acute young Scot conceived that the wearer must be either very rich or very poor, probably the former. The fashion of the dress was close and short, a kind of garment which was not then held decorous among gentry, or even the superior class of citizens, who generally wore loose gowns which descended below the middle of the leg. The expression of this man's countenance was partly attractive and partly forbidding. His strong features, sunk cheeks, and hollow eyes had, nevertheless, an expression of shrewdness and humour congenial to the character of the young adventurer. But then, those same sunken eyes, from under the shroud of thick black eyebrows, had something in them that was at once commanding and sinister. Perhaps this effect was increased by the low fur cap, much depressed on the forehead, and adding to the shade from under which those eyes peered out; but it is certain that the young stranger had some difficulty to reconcile his looks with the meanness of his appearance in other respects. His cap, in particular, in which all men of any quality displayed either a brooch of gold or of silver, was ornamented with a paltry image of the Virgin, in lead, such as the poorer sort of pilgrims bring from Loretto [a city in Italy, containing the sanctuary of the Virgin Mary called the Santa Casa, reputed to have been brought there by angels.]. His comrade was a stout formed, middle sized man, more than ten years younger than his companion, with a down looking visage and a very ominous smile, when by chance he gave way to that impulse, which was never, except in reply to certain secret signs that seemed to pass between him and the elder stranger. This man was armed with a sword and dagger; and underneath his plain habit the Scotsman observed that he concealed a jazeran, or flexible shirt of linked mail, which, as being often worn by those, even of peaceful professions, who were called upon at that perilous period to be frequently abroad, confirmed the young man in his conjecture that the wearer was by profession a butcher, grazier, or something of that description, called upon to be much abroad. The young stranger, comprehending in one glance the result of the observation which has taken us some time to express, answered, after a moment's pause, “I am ignorant whom I may have the honour to address,” making a slight reverence at the same time, “but I am indifferent who knows that I am a cadet of Scotland; and that I come to seek my fortune in France, or elsewhere, after the custom of my countrymen.” “Pasques dieu! and a gallant custom it is,” said the elder stranger. “You seem a fine young springald, and at the right age to prosper, whether among men or women. What say you? I am a merchant, and want a lad to assist in my traffic; I suppose you are too much a gentleman to assist in such mechanical drudgery?” “Fair sir,” said the youth, “if your offer be seriously made--of which I have my doubts--I am bound to thank you for it, and I thank you accordingly; but I fear I should be altogether unfit for your service.” “What!” said the senior, “I warrant thou knowest better how to draw the bow, than how to draw a bill of charges--canst handle a broadsword better than a pen--ha!” “I am, master,” answered the young Scot, “a braeman, and therefore, as we say, a bowman. But besides that, I have been in a convent, where the good fathers taught me to read and write, and even to cipher.” “Pasques dieu! that is too magnificent,” said the merchant. “By our Lady of Embrun [a town in France containing a cathedral in which was a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, said to have been sculptured by St. Luke], thou art a prodigy, man!” “Rest you merry, fair master,” said the youth, who was not much pleased with his new acquaintance's jocularity, “I must go dry myself, instead of standing dripping here, answering questions.” The merchant only laughed louder as he spoke, and answered, “Pasques dieu! the proverb never fails--fier comme un Ecossois [proud or haughty as a Scotchman]--but come, youngster, you are of a country I have a regard for, having traded in Scotland in my time--an honest poor set of folks they are; and, if you will come with us to the village, I will bestow on you a cup of burnt sack and a warm breakfast, to atone for your drenching.--But tete bleau! what do you with a hunting glove on your hand? Know you not there is no hawking permitted in a royal chase?” “I was taught that lesson,” answered the youth, “by a rascally forester of the Duke of Burgundy. I did but fly the falcon I had brought with me from Scotland, and that I reckoned on for bringing me into some note, at a heron near Peronne, and the rascally schelm [rogue, rascal (obsolete or Scotch)] shot my bird with an arrow.” “What did you do?” said the merchant. “Beat him,” said the youngster, brandishing his staff, “as near to death as one Christian man should belabour another--I wanted not to have his blood to answer for.” “Know you,” said the burgess, “that had you fallen into the Duke of Burgundy's hands, he would have hung you up like a chestnut?” “Ay, I am told he is as prompt as the King of France for that sort of work. But, as this happened near Peronne, I made a leap over the frontiers, and laughed at him. If he had not been so hasty, I might, perhaps, have taken service with him.” “He will have a heavy miss of such a paladin as you are, if the truce should break off,” said the merchant, and threw a look at his own companion, who answered him with one of the downcast lowering smiles which gleamed along his countenance, enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a winter sky. The young Scot suddenly stopped, pulled his bonnet over his right eyebrow, as one that would not be ridiculed, and said firmly, “My masters, and especially you, sir, the elder, and who should be the wiser, you will find, I presume, no sound or safe jesting at my expense. I do not altogether like the tone of your conversation. I can take a jest with any man, and a rebuke, too, from my elder, and say thank you, sir, if I know it to be deserved; but I do not like being borne in hand as if I were a child, when, God wot, I find myself man enough to belabour you both, if you provoke me too far.” The eldest man seemed like to choke with laughter at the lad's demeanour--his companion's hand stole to his sword hilt, which the youth observing, dealt him a blow across the wrist, which made him incapable of grasping it, while his companion's mirth was only increased by the incident. “Hold, hold,” he cried, “most doughty Scot, even for thine own dear country's sake, and you, gossip, forbear your menacing look. Pasques-dieu! let us be just traders, and set off the wetting against the knock on the wrist, which was given with so much grace and alacrity.--And hark ye, my young friend,” he said to the young man, with a grave sternness which, in spite of all the youth could do, damped and overawed him, “no more violence. I am no fit object for it, and my gossip, as you may see, has had enough of it. Let me know your name.” “I can answer a civil question civilly,” said the youth; “and will pay fitting respect to your age, if you do not urge my patience with mockery. Since I have been here in France and Flanders, men have called me, in their fantasy, the Varlet with the Velvet Pouch, because of this hawk purse which I carry by my side; but my true name, when at home, is Quentin Durward.” “Durward!” said the querist; “is it a gentleman's name?” “By fifteen descents in our family,” said the young man; “and that makes me reluctant to follow any other trade than arms.” “A true Scot! Plenty of blood, plenty of pride, and right great scarcity of ducats, I warrant thee.--Well, gossip,” he said to his companion, “go before us, and tell them to have some breakfast ready yonder at the Mulberry grove; for this youth will do as much honour to it as a starved mouse to a housewife's cheese. And for the Bohemian--hark in thy ear.” His comrade answered by a gloomy but intelligent smile, and set forward at a round pace, while the elder man continued, addressing young Durward, “You and I will walk leisurely forward together, and we may take a mass at Saint Hubert's Chapel in our way through the forest; for it is not good to think of our fleshly before our spiritual wants.” [This silvan saint... was passionately fond of the chase, and used to neglect attendance on divine worship for this amusement. While he was once engaged in this pastime, a stag appeared before him, having a crucifix bound betwixt his horns, and he heard a voice which menaced him with eternal punishment if he did not repent of his sins. He retired from the world and took orders... Hubert afterwards became Bishop of Maestrecht and Liege. S.] Durward, as a good Catholic, had nothing to object against this proposal, although he might probably have been desirous, in the first place; to have dried his clothes and refreshed himself. Meanwhile, they soon lost sight of their downward looking companion, but continued to follow the same path which he had taken, until it led them into a wood of tall trees, mixed with thickets and brushwood, traversed by long avenues, through which were seen, as through a vista, the deer trotting in little herds with a degree of security which argued their consciousness of being completely protected. “You asked me if I were a good bowman,” said the young Scot. “Give me a bow and a brace of shafts, and you shall have a piece of venison in a moment.” “Pasques dieu! my young friend,” said his companion, “take care of that; my gossip yonder hath a special eye to the deer; they are under his charge, and he is a strict keeper.” “He hath more the air of a butcher than of a gay forester,” answered Durward. “I cannot think yon hang dog look of his belongs to any one who knows the gentle rules of woodcraft.” “Ah, my young friend,” answered his companion, “my gossip hath somewhat an ugly favour to look upon at the first; but those who become acquainted with him never are known to complain of him.” Quentin Durward found something singularly and disagreeably significant in the tone with which this was spoken; and, looking suddenly at the speaker, thought he saw in his countenance, in the slight smile that curled his upper lip, and the accompanying twinkle of his keen dark eye, something to justify his unpleasing surprise. “I have heard of robbers,” he thought to himself, “and of wily cheats and cutthroats--what if yonder fellow be a murderer, and this old rascal his decoy duck! I will be on my guard--they will get little by me but good Scottish knocks.” While he was thus reflecting, they came to a glade, where the large forest trees were more widely separated from each other, and where the ground beneath, cleared of underwood and bushes, was clothed with a carpet of the softest and most lovely verdure, which, screened from the scorching heat of the sun, was here more beautifully tender than it is usually to be seen in France. The trees in this secluded spot were chiefly beeches and elms of huge magnitude, which rose like great hills of leaves into the air. Amidst these magnificent sons of the earth there peeped out, in the most open spot of the glade, a lowly chapel, near which trickled a small rivulet. Its architecture was of the rudest and most simple kind; and there was a very small lodge beside it, for the accommodation of a hermit or solitary priest, who remained there for regularly discharging the duty of the altar. In a small niche over the arched doorway stood a stone image of Saint Hubert, with the bugle horn around his neck, and a leash of greyhounds at his feet. The situation of the chapel in the midst of a park or chase, so richly stocked with game, made the dedication to the Sainted Huntsman peculiarly appropriate. Towards this little devotional structure the old man directed his steps, followed by young Durward; and, as they approached, the priest, dressed in his sacerdotal garments, made his appearance in the act of proceeding from his cell to the chapel, for the discharge, doubtless, of his holy office. Durward bowed his body reverently to the priest, as the respect due to his sacred office demanded; whilst his companion, with an appearance of still more deep devotion, kneeled on one knee to receive the holy man's blessing, and then followed him into church, with a step and manner expressive of the most heartfelt contrition and humility. The inside of the chapel was adorned in a manner adapted to the occupation of the patron saint while on earth. The richest furs of such animals as are made the objects of the chase in different countries supplied the place of tapestry and hangings around the altar and elsewhere, and the characteristic emblazonments of bugles, bows, quivers, and other emblems of hunting, surrounded the walls, and were mingled with the heads of deer, wolves, and other animals considered beasts of sport. The whole adornments took an appropriate and silvan character; and the mass itself, being considerably shortened, proved to be of that sort which is called a hunting mass, because in use before the noble and powerful, who, while assisting at the solemnity, are usually impatient to commence their favourite sport. Yet, during this brief ceremony, Durward's companion seemed to pay the most rigid and scrupulous attention; while Durward, not quite so much occupied with religious thoughts, could not forbear blaming himself in his own mind for having entertained suspicions derogatory to the character of so good and so humble a man. Far from now holding him as a companion and accomplice of robbers, he had much to do to forbear regarding him as a saint-like personage. When mass was ended, they retired together from the chapel, and the elder said to his young comrade, “It is but a short walk from hence to the village--you may now break your fast with an unprejudiced conscience--follow me.” Turning to the right, and proceeding along a path which seemed gradually to ascend, he recommended to his companion by no means to quit the track, but, on the contrary, to keep the middle of it as nearly as he could. Durward could not help asking the cause of this precaution. “You are now near the Court, young man,” answered his guide; “and, Pasques-dieu! there is some difference betwixt walking in this region and on your own heathy hills. Every yard of this ground, excepting the path which we now occupy, is rendered dangerous, and well nigh impracticable, by snares and traps, armed with scythe blades, which shred off the unwary passenger's limb as sheerly as a hedge bill lops a hawthorn sprig--and calthrops that would pierce your foot through, and pitfalls deep enough to bury you in them for ever; for you are now within the precincts of the royal demesne, and we shall presently see the front of the Chateau.” “Were I the King of France,” said the young man, “I would not take so much trouble with traps and gins, but would try instead to govern so well that no man should dare to come near my dwelling with a bad intent; and for those who came there in peace and goodwill, why, the more of them the merrier we should be.” His companion looked round affecting an alarmed gaze, and said, “Hush, hush, Sir Varlet with the Velvet Pouch! for I forgot to tell you, that one great danger of these precincts is, that the very leaves of the trees are like so many ears, which carry all which is spoken to the King's own cabinet.” “I care little for that,” answered Quentin Durward; “I bear a Scottish tongue in my head, bold enough to speak my mind to King Louis's face, God bless him--and for the ears you talk of, if I could see them growing on a human head, I would crop them out of it with my wood knife.” CHAPTER III: THE CASTLE Full in the midst a mighty pile arose, Where iron grated gates their strength oppose To each invading step--and strong and steep, The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk deep. Slow round the fortress roll'd the sluggish stream, And high in middle air the warder's turrets gleam. ANONYMOUS While Durward and his acquaintance thus spoke, they came in sight of the whole front of the Castle of Plessis les Tours, which, even in those dangerous times, when the great found themselves obliged to reside within places of fortified strength, was distinguished for the extreme and jealous care with which it was watched and defended. From the verge of the wood where young Durward halted with his companion, in order to take a view of this royal residence, extended, or rather arose, though by a very gentle elevation, an open esplanade, devoid of trees and bushes of every description, excepting one gigantic and half withered old oak. This space was left open, according to the rules of fortification in all ages, in order that an enemy might not approach the walls under cover, or unobserved from the battlements, and beyond it arose the Castle itself. There were three external walls, battlemented and turreted from space to space and at each angle, the second enclosure rising higher than the first, and being built so as to command the exterior defence in case it was won by the enemy; and being again, in the same manner, itself commanded by the third and innermost barrier. Around the external wall, as the Frenchman informed his young companion (for as they stood lower than the foundation of the wall, he could not see it), was sunk a ditch of about twenty feet in depth, supplied with water by a dam head on the river Cher; or rather on one of its tributary branches. In front of the second enclosure, he said, there ran another fosse, and a third, both of the same unusual dimensions, was led between the second and the innermost inclosure. The verge, both of the outer and inner circuit of this triple moat was strongly fenced with palisades of iron, serving the purpose of what are called chevaux de frise in modern fortification, the top of each pale being divided into a cluster of sharp spikes, which seemed to render any attempt to climb over an act of self destruction. From within the innermost enclosure arose the Castle itself, containing buildings of all periods, crowded around, and united with the ancient and grim looking donjon keep, which was older than any of them, and which rose, like a black Ethiopian giant, high into the air, while the absence of any windows larger than shot holes, irregularly disposed for defence, gave the spectator the same unpleasant feeling which we experience on looking at a blind man. The other buildings seemed scarcely better adapted for the purposes of comfort, for the windows opened to an inner and enclosed courtyard; so that the whole external front looked much more like that of a prison than a palace. The reigning King had even increased this effect; for, desirous that the additions which he himself had made to the fortifications should be of a character not easily distinguished from the original building (for, like many jealous persons, he loved not that his suspicions should be observed), the darkest coloured brick and freestone were employed, and soot mingled with the lime, so as to give the whole Castle the same uniform tinge of extreme and rude antiquity. This formidable place had but one entrance--at least Durward saw none along the spacious front, except where, in the centre of the first and outward boundary, arose two strong towers, the usual defences of a gateway; and he could observe their ordinary accompaniments, portcullis and drawbridge--of which the first was lowered, and the last raised. Similar entrance towers were visible on the second and third bounding wall, but not in the same line with those on the outward circuit; because the passage did not cut right through the whole three enclosures at the same point, but, on the contrary, those who entered had to proceed nearly thirty yards betwixt the first and second wall, exposed, if their purpose were hostile, to missiles from both; and again, when the second boundary was passed, they must make a similar digression from the straight line, in order to attain the portal of the third and innermost enclosure; so that before gaining the outer court, which ran along the front of the building, two narrow and dangerous defiles were to be traversed under a flanking discharge of artillery, and three gates, defended in the strongest manner known to the age, were to be successively forced. Coming from a country alike desolated by foreign war and internal feuds--a country, too, whose unequal and mountainous surface, abounding in precipices and torrents, affords so many situations of strength, young Durward was sufficiently acquainted with all the various contrivances by which men, in that stern age, endeavoured to secure their dwellings; but he frankly owned to his companion, that he did not think it had been in the power of art to do so much for defence, where nature had done so little; for the situation, as we have hinted, was merely the summit of a gentle elevation ascending upwards from the place where they were standing. To enhance his surprise, his companion told him that the environs of the Castle, except the single winding path by which the portal might be safely approached, were, like the thickets through which they had passed, surrounded with every species of hidden pitfall, snare, and gin, to entrap the wretch who should venture thither without a guide; that upon the walls were constructed certain cradles of iron, called swallows' nests, from which the sentinels, who were regularly posted there, could without being exposed to any risk, take deliberate aim at any who should attempt to enter without the proper signal or password of the day; and that the Archers of the Royal Guard performed that duty day and night, for which they received high pay, rich clothing, and much honour and profit at the hands of King Louis. “And now tell me, young man,” he continued, “did you ever see so strong a fortress, and do you think there are men bold enough to storm it?” The young man looked long and fixedly on the place, the sight of which interested him so much that he had forgotten, in the eagerness of youthful curiosity, the wetness of his dress. His eye glanced, and his colour mounted to his cheek like that of a daring man who meditates an honourable action, as he replied, “It is a strong castle, and strongly guarded; but there is no impossibility to brave men.” “Are there any in your country who could do such a feat?” said the elder, rather scornfully. “I will not affirm that,” answered the youth; “but there are thousands that, in a good cause, would attempt as bold a deed.” “Umph!” said the senior, “perhaps you are yourself such a gallant!” “I should sin if I were to boast where there is no danger,” answered young Durward; “but my father has done as bold an act, and I trust I am no bastard.” “Well,” said his companion, smiling, “you might meet your match, and your kindred withal in the attempt; for the Scottish Archers of King Louis's Life Guards stand sentinels on yonder walls--three hundred gentlemen of the best blood in your country.” “And were I King Louis,” said the youth, in reply, “I would trust my safety to the faith of the three hundred Scottish gentlemen, throw down my bounding walls to fill up the moat; call in my noble peers and paladins, and live as became me, amid breaking of lances in gallant tournaments, and feasting of days with nobles, and dancing of nights with ladies, and have no more fear of a foe than I have of a fly.” His companion again smiled, and turning his back on the Castle, which, he observed, they had approached a little too nearly, he led the way again into the wood by a more broad and beaten path than they had yet trodden. “This,” he said, “leads us to the village of Plessis, as it is called, where you, as a stranger, will find reasonable and honest accommodation. About two miles onward lies the fine city of Tours, which gives name to this rich and beautiful earldom. But the village of Plessis, or Plessis of the Park as it is sometimes called, from its vicinity to the royal residence, and the chase with which it is encircled, will yield you nearer and as convenient hospitality.” “I thank you, kind master,
-Nil, que des natifs qui s’étaient installés en territoire Britannique sont revenus sur la rive gauche à la suite de l’établissement d’impositions nouvellement édictées par l’autorité Anglaise. Si c’est, d’ailleurs, ces régions qui sont visées, les informations de la note semblent être en contradiction avec d’autres renseignements donnés, par exemple, par Sir Harry Johnston:-- “This much I can speak of with certainty and emphasis: that from the British frontier near Fort George to the limit of my journeys into the Mbuba country of the Congo Free State, up and down the Semliki, the natives appear to be prosperous and happy.... The extent to which they were building their villages and cultivating their plantations within the precincts of Fort Mbeni showed that they had no fear of the Belgians.” Le Major H. H. Gibbons, qui s’est trouvé plusieurs mois sur le Haut-Nil, écrit:-- “Ayant eu l’occasion de connaître plusieurs officiers et de visiter leurs stations de l’État du Congo, je suis convaincu que la conduite de ces messieurs a été bien mal interprétée par la presse. J’ai cité comme preuve mon expérience personnelle, qui est en opposition avec une version récemment publiée par la presse Anglaise, qui les accuse de grandes cruautés.” La déclaration de Juin dernier, ci-jointe, a fait justice des critiques contre la force publique de l’État en signalant que son recrutement est réglé par la loi et qu’il n’atteint qu’un homme sur 10,000. Dire que “the method of obtaining men for military service is often but little different from that formerly employed to obtain slaves,” c’est méconnaître les prescriptions minutieuses édictées pour, au contraire, éviter les abus. Les levées s’opèrent dans chaque district; les Commissaires de District règlent, de commun accord avec les Chefs indigènes, le mode de conscription. Les engagements volontaires et les multiples réengagements complètent aisément les effectifs qui atteignent à peine le chiffre modique de 15,000 hommes. Ceux qui allèguent, comme le dit la note, que “the men composing the armed force of the State were in many cases recruited from the most warlike and savage tribes,” ignorent que la force publique est recrutée dans toutes les provinces et parmi toute la population du territoire. Les intérêts de l’État protestent contre cette notion d’une armée que l’autorité elle-même formerait d’éléments indisciplinés et sauvages et des exemples--tels que les excès qui ont été mis à charge des auxiliaires irréguliers utilisés dans l’Uganda, ainsi que les révoltes qui se sont produites jadis au Congo, imposent, au contraire, une circonspection spéciale pour la composition de la force armée. Les cadres Européens, qui se composent d’officiers Belges, Italiens, Suédois, Norwégiens, et Danois, y maintiennent une sévère discipline, et l’on chercherait en vain à quelles réelles circonstances fait allusion l’assertion que les soldats “not infrequently terrorized over their own officers.” Elle n’est pas plus fondée que cette autre assertion, “that compulsion is often exercised by irresponsible native soldiers uncontrolled by an European officer.” Depuis longtemps, l’autorité était consciente des dangers que présentait l’existence de postes de soldats noirs, dont le Rapport de Sir D. Chalmers, sur l’insurrection à Sierra-Leone, a constaté les inévitables abus de pouvoirs. Au Congo, ils ont été graduellement supprimés. Il apparaîtra, à ceux qui ne nient pas l’évidence, que des reproches articulés contre l’État, le plus injuste est d’avancer “that no attempt at any administration of the natives is made, and that the officers of the Government do not apparently concern themselves with such work.” On peut s’étonner de trouver semblable affirmation dans une dépêche d’un Gouvernement dont l’un des membres, Lord Cranborne, Sous-Secrétaire d’État pour les Affaires Étrangères, disait le 20 Mai dernier:-- “There was no doubt that the administration of the Congo Government had been marked by a very high degree of a certain kind of administrative development. There were railways, there were steamers upon the river, hospitals had been established, and all the machinery of elaborate judicial and police systems had been set up.” Un autre Membre de la Chambre des Communes reconnaissait-- “That the Congo State had done good work in excluding alcoholic liquors from the greater part of their domain, that they had established a certain number of hospitals, had diminished small-pox by means of vaccination, and had suppressed the Arab Slave Trade.” Si atténuées que soient ces appréciations, encore démentent-elles cette affirmation d’aujourd’hui que “the natives are left entirely to themselves, so far as any assistance in their government or in their affairs is concerned.” Telles ne semblent pas être les conclusions auxquelles, déjà en 1898, arrivait le Consul Anglais Pickersgill. “Has the welfare of the African,” se demande-t-il, “been duly cared for in the Congo State?” Il répond: “The State has restricted the liquor trade... it is scarcely possible to over-estimate the service which is being rendered by the Congo Government to its subjects in this matter.... Intertribal wars have been suppressed over a wide area, and, the imposition of European authority being steadily pursued, the boundaries of peace are constantly extending.... The State must be congratulated upon the security it has created for all who live within the shelter of its flag and abide by its laws and regulations.... Credit is also due to the Congo Government in respect of the diminution of cannibalism.... The yoke of the notorious Arab Slave Traders has been broken, and traffic in human beings amongst the natives themselves has been diminished to a considerable degree.” Ce Rapport constatait aussi que les travaux des natifs étaient rémunérés et rendait hommage aux efforts de l’État pour instruire les jeunes indigènes et ouvrir des écoles. Depuis 1898 l’amélioration de la condition générale de l’indigène a encore progressé. Le portage à dos d’homme, dont précisément Mr. Pickersgill signalait le côté pénible pour les indigènes, a disparu là où il était le plus actif, en raison de la mise en exploitation des voies ferrées. Ailleurs, l’automobile est utilisée comme moyen de transport. La “sentry”--le poste de soldats nègres qu’il critiquait non sans raison--n’existe plus. Le bétail est introduit dans tous les districts. Des Commissions d’Hygiène sont instituées. Les écoles et les ateliers se sont multipliés. “L’indigène,” dit le document ci-joint, “est mieux logé, vêtu, nourri; il remplace ses huttes par des habitations plus résistantes et mieux appropriées aux exigences de l’hygiène; grâce aux facilités de transport, il s’approvisionne des produits nécessaires à ses besoins nouveaux; des ateliers lui sont ouverts, où il apprend des métiers manuels--tels que, ceux de forgeron, charpentier, mécanicien, maçon; il étend ses plantations, et, à l’exemple des blancs, s’inspire des modes de culture rationnels; les soins médicaux lui sont assurés; il envoie ses enfants dans les colonies scolaires de l’État et aux écoles des missionnaires.” Il est juste de reconnaître, a-t-on dit à la Chambre des Communes, que la régénération matérielle et morale de l’Afrique Centrale ne peut être l’œuvre d’un jour. Les résultats obtenus jusqu’à présent sont considérables; nous chercherons à les consolider et à les accentuer, malgré les entraves que l’on s’efforce de mettre à l’action de l’État, action que l’intérêt bien entendu de la civilisation serait, au contraire, de favoriser. La note Anglaise ne démontre pas que le système économique de l’État est opposé à l’Acte de Berlin. Elle ne rencontre pas les éléments de droit et de fait par lesquels l’État a justifié la conformité de ses lois foncières et de ses concessions avec les dispositions de cet Acte. Elle n’explique pas pourquoi ni en quoi la liberté de commerce, termes dont la Conférence de Berlin s’est servie dans leur sens usuel, grammatical et économique, ne serait plus entière au Congo parce qu’il s’y trouve des propriétaires. La note confond l’exploitation de son bien par le propriétaire avec le commerce. L’indigène, qui récolte pour compte du propriétaire, ne devient pas propriétaire des produits récoltés et ne peut naturellement les céder à autrui, pas plus que l’ouvrier qui extrait les produits d’une mine ne peut en frustrer le propriétaire en en disposant lui-même. Ces règles sont de droit et sont mises en lumière dans de multiples documents: consultations juridiques et décisions judiciaires dont quelques-unes sont annexées. Le Gouvernement de Sa Majesté ne conteste pas que l’État a le droit de répartir les terres domaniales entre les occupants _bonâ fide_ et que l’indigène ne peut plus prétendre aux produits du sol, mais seulement lorsque “land is reduced into individual occupation.” La distinction est sans base juridique. Si l’État peut céder les terres, c’est que l’indigène n’en a pas la propriété, et à quel titre alors conserverait-il un droit aux produits d’un fonds dont la propriété est légitimement acquise par d’autres? Pourrait-on soutenir, par exemple, que la Compagnie du Chemin de Fer du Bas-Congo ou la Société du Sud-Cameroun ou l’Italien Colonial Trading Company sont tenues de tolérer le pillage par les indigènes des terres qu’elles ont reçues, parce qu’elles ne les occuperaient pas actuellement? En fait, d’ailleurs, au Congo, l’appropriation des terres exploitées en régie ou par les Compagnies Concessionnaires est chose réalisée. L’État et les Sociétés ont consacré à leur mise en valeur, notamment des forêts, des sommes considérables se chiffrant par millions de francs. Il n’y a donc pas de doute que dans tous les territoires du Congo, l’État exploite réellement et complètement ses propriétés, tout comme les Sociétés exploitent réellement et complètement leurs Concessions. Cet état de choses existant et consolidé dans l’État Indépendant permettrait, en ce qui le concerne, de ne point insister plus longuement sur la théorie formulée par la note et qui envisage tour à tour les droits de l’État, ceux des occupants _bonâ fide_, ceux des indigènes. Cependant, elle s’impose à l’attention des Puissances par les graves difficultés qu’elle ferait surgir si elle était implicitement acceptée. La nota contient les trois propositions suivantes:-- “The State has the right to partition the State lands among _bonâ fide_ occupants.” “The natives will, as the land is so divided out amongst _bonâ fide_ occupiers, lose their right of roaming over it and collecting the natural fruits which it produces.” “Until unoccupied land is reduced into individual occupation and so long as the produce can only be collected by the native, the native should be free to dispose of that produce as he pleases.” Il n’est pas une de ces propositions qui ne semble exclure les deux autres, et à vrai dire ces contradictions aboutissent à la négation du droit de Concession. S’il a existé des occupants _bonâ fide_, ils sont devenus propriétaires: l’occupation, lorsqu’elle trouve à s’exercer, est dans toutes les législations un des modes d’acquisition de la propriété, et, au Congo, les titres en dérivant ont été légalement enregistrés. Si la terre n’a été valablement occupée par personne, elle est sans maître ou, plus exactement, elle a l’État pour maître: il peut en disposer au profit d’un tiers, et celui-ci trouve dans cet acte de disposition un titre complet et absolu. Dans l’un comme dans l’autre cas, il ne se conçoit pas que les fruits du sol puissent être réservés à d’autres qu’au propriétaire sous le prétexte qu’il n’est pas apte, en fait, à récolter les produits de son fonds. Par une singulière contradiction, le système de la note dit qu’à la suite de l’attribution des terres par l’État, les indigènes “lose their right of collecting the natural fruits,” et, d’autre part, qu’ils conservent le droit de disposer de ces produits “until unoccupied land is reduced into individual occupation.” On ne comprend pas la notion d’un droit appartenant aux natifs qui existerait ou non de par le fait de tiers. Ou bien, par suite de l’attribution des terres, ils ont perdu leurs droits, et alors ils les ont perdus totalement et complètement; ou bien, ils les ont conservés, et ils doivent les conserver, quoique “the land is reduced into individual occupation.” Que faut-il d’ailleurs entendre dans le système de la note par occupants “_bonâ fide_” et par “individual occupation?” Qui sera juge du point de savoir si l’occupant a mis ses terres en état d’occupation individuelle, s’il était apte à en recueillir les produits ou si c’était encore l’indigène? Ce serait, en tous cas, des points relevant essentiellement du droit interne. La note, au surplus, est incomplète sur un autre point. Elle dit que là où l’exploitation ne se ferait pas encore par les ayants droit, la faculté d’exploiter devrait appartenir aux indigènes. Elle voudrait donc donner un droit aux indigènes au préjudice des Gouvernements ou des concessionnaires blancs, mais n’explique pas comment ni par qui le tort ainsi causé serait compensé ou indemnisé. Quoique le système ainsi préconisé ne puisse avoir d’application dans l’État du Congo, puisqu’il ne s’y trouve plus de terres inappropriées, cette remarque s’impose dans l’intérêt des blancs établis dans le bassin conventionnel. S’il est équitable de bien traiter les noirs, il est juste de ne pas spolier les blancs, qui, dans l’intérêt de tous, doivent rester la race dirigeante. Économiquement parlant, il serait déplorable qu’en dépit des droits régulièrement acquis par les blancs, les terres domaniales se trouvassent livrées aux indigènes, fût-ce temporairement. Ce serait le retour à leur état d’abandon de jadis, alors que les natifs les laissaient inproductives, car les récoltes de caoutchouc, les plantations de café, de cacao, de tabac, &c., datent du jour où l’État en a pris lui-même l’initiative: le mouvement des exportations était insignifiant avant l’essor que lui ont donné les entreprises gouvernementales. Ce serait aussi l’inobservance certaine des mesures d’exploitation rationnelle, de plantation et de replantation auxquelles s’astreignent l’État et les Sociétés Concessionnaires pour assurer la conservation des richesses naturelles du pays. Jamais au Congo, que nous sachions, les demandes d’achat des produits naturels n’ont été adressées aux légitimes propriétaires. Jusqu’ici l’on n’a cherché à y acheter que des produits provenant de recels, et l’État, comme c’était son devoir, a fait poursuivre ces tentatives délictueuses. La politique de l’État n’a pas, comme on l’a dit, tué le commerce: elle l’a, au contraire, créé, et elle perpétue la matière commerciale; c’est grâce à elle que, sur le marché commercial d’Anvers et bientôt au Congo même--on examine la possibilité d’y établir des dépôts de vente--peuvent être offertes annuellement à tous indistinctement, sans privilège ni monopole, 5,000 tonnes de caoutchouc récolté au Congo, alors qu’antérieurement, par exemple en 1887, l’exportation du caoutchouc se chiffrait à peine par 30 tonnes. C’est l’État qui, après avoir à ses frais créé la matière commerciale, en maintient soigneusement la source au moyen des plantations et replantations. Il n’est pas à oublier que l’État du Congo a dû compter sur ses propres ressources. Ce fut une nécessité pour lui d’utiliser son domaine dans l’intérêt général. Toutes les recettes du domaine sont versées au Trésor, ainsi que le revenu des actions dont l’État est détenteur en raison de Concessions accordées. Ce n’est même qu’en tirant tout le parti utile de ses domaines et en engageant la plus grande partie de leurs revenus qu’il a pu contracter des emprunts et provoquer à des entreprises de chemins de fer par des garanties d’intérêt, réalisant ainsi l’un des moyens les plus désirés par la Conférence de Bruxelles pour faire pénétrer la civilisation au centre de l’Afrique. Aussi n’a-t-il pas hésité à gager ses domaines dans ce but. L’Acte de Berlin ne s’y oppose pas, car il n’a édicté aucune proscription des droits de propriété, comme on veut, après coup, le lui faire dire, tendant ainsi, consciemment ou non, à la ruine de tout le bassin conventionnel du Congo. Il n’échappera pas non plus aux Puissances que les conclusions de la note Anglaise, en suggérant une référence à la Cour de La Haye, tendent à faire considérer comme cas d’arbitrage des questions de souveraineté et d’administration intérieure que la doctrine courante a toujours exclues des décisions d’arbitres. Pour ce qui concerne le cas actuel, il est à supposer que la suggestion d’une référence à la Cour de La Haye a une portée générale, s’il est vrai que, de l’avis des Chambres de Commerce Anglaises, “the principles and practice introduced into the administration of the affairs of the French Congo, the Congo Free State, and other areas in the conventional basin of the Congo being in direct opposition to the Articles of the Act of Berlin 1885.” Le Gouvernement de l’État n’a cessé, pour sa part, de préconiser l’arbitrage pour les dissentiments d’ordre international qui en comportaient l’application: ainsi, il voudrait voir déférées à l’arbitrage les divergences de vues qui se sont produites au sujet du bail des territoires du Bahr-el-Ghazal. Après un examen attentif de la note Anglaise, le Gouvernement de l’État du Congo reste convaincu qu’en raison du vague et du manque complet de preuves, ce dont elle fait implicitement l’aveu, il n’est pas une juridiction au monde, en en supposant une qui ait compétence pour être saisie, qui puisse, bien loin de prononcer une sorte de condamnation, prendre une autre décision que celle de ne pas donner suite à de simples suppositions. Si l’État du Congo se voit attaqué, l’Angleterre peut se dire que, plus que nulle autre nation, elle s’est trouvée, elle aussi, en butte aux attaques et aux accusations de toute espèce, et longue serait la liste des campagnes poursuivies en divers temps et jusque dans récentes occasions contre son administration coloniale. Elle n’a certes pas échappé aux critiques que lui ont valu ses guerres multiples et sanglantes contre les populations indigènes ni aux reproches de violenter les natifs et de porter atteinte à leur liberté. Ne lui a-t-on pas fait grief de ces longues insurrections à Sierra-Leone--de cet état d’hostilité dans la Nigérie, où tout dernièrement, d’après les journaux Anglais, la répression militaire a, en une seule circonstance, coûté la vie à 700 indigènes, à la plupart de leurs Chefs et au Sultan--de cette lutte qui se poursuit au Somaliland au prix du sacrifice de nombreuses vies humaines, sans que cependant il ne soit exprimé à la Chambre des Communes d’autre regret que celui du chiffre élevé des dépenses? Alors que ces attaques adressées à l’Angleterre l’ont laissée indifférente, il y a lieu d’être surpris de la voir aujourd’hui attacher une toute autre importance à celles dirigées contre l’État du Congo. On peut croire, cependant, que les préférences des indigènes de l’État du Congo demeurent acquises au Gouvernement d’une petite nation pacifique, dont les visées restent pacifiques comme a été pacifique sa création basée sur les Traités conclus avec les indigènes. (Signé) CHR. DE CUVELIER. _Bruxelles, le 17 Septembre, 1903._ (Translation.) The Government of the Independent State of the Congo have examined the despatch from the Foreign Office, dated the 8th August last, which was communicated to the Signatory Powers of the Berlin Act, and declare themselves in agreement with His Majesty’s Government on two fundamental points, viz., that natives ought to be treated with humanity and gradually led into the paths of civilization, and that freedom of commerce in the Conventional Basin of the Congo ought to be entire and complete. They deny, however, that the manner in which the State is administered involves a systematic régime “of cruelty or oppression,” and that the principle of commercial freedom would introduce modifications in the rights of property as universally understood, seeing that there is not a word to this effect in the Berlin Act. The Congo State observes that there is in that Act no provision which would sanction restrictions of any kind on the exercise of the rights of property, or give to one Signatory Power the right of intervention in the interior administration of another. It desires faithfully to observe the Berlin Act, that great International Act which binds all Signatory or adhering Powers, according to the clear grammatical sense of the text, which none has power either to take from or add to. The English note observes that it is within the last few years that a definite shape has been assumed by the campaign conducted in England against the Congo State, on the twofold pretext of the ill-treatment of natives and the existence of commercial monopolies. It is indeed worthy of remark that this campaign dates from the time when the prosperity of the State became assured. The State had been founded for years, and administered in the same way as it is now, its principles in regard to the State-ownership of vacant lands, and the manner in which its armed forces were organized and recruited, were known to the public, without any interest in the matter being shown by the philanthropists and traders to whose opinion the note begins by referring. This was the period during which the State Budget could only be balanced by means of the King-Sovereign’s subsidies and Belgian loans, and when the commerce of the Congo did not attract attention. The term “Congo atrocities” was at that time only used in connexion with “the alleged ill-treatment of African natives by English and other adventurers in the Congo Free State.”[3] After 1895 the trade of the Congo State developed remarkably, and the amount of its exports shows a progressive increase from 10 millions in 1895 to 50 millions in 1902. It is also about this time that the anti-Congo movement took shape. As the State gave increased proof of vitality and progress, the campaign became more active, reliance being placed on a few individual and isolated cases with a view to using the interests of humanity as a pretext and concealing the real object of a covetousness which, in its impatience, has betrayed itself in the writings of pamphleteers and in the speeches of Members of the House of Commons, in which the abolition and partition of the Congo State has been clearly put forward. Such being the object in view, it became necessary to bring a whole series of charges against the State. So far as the humanitarian side of the question is concerned, the alleged cases of violence offered to natives have once more been brought forward and re-edited _ad infinitum_. For in all the meetings, writings, and speeches which have latterly been directed against the State, it is always the same facts which are brought up, and the same evidence which is produced. With regard to the economic side of the question, the State has been accused of having violated the Act of Berlin, notwithstanding the legal opinions of such lawyers as are most qualified to speak to the point, which afford ample legal justification both for its commercial and for its land system. With regard to the political side, a heresy in international law has been imagined, viz., that a State, the independence and sovereignty of which are absolute, should, at the same time, owe its position to the intervention of foreign Powers. With regard to the cases of ill-treatment of natives, we attach special importance to those which, according to the note, have been reported in the despatches of His Majesty’s Consular Agents. At the sitting of the House of Commons on the 11th March, 1903, Lord Cranborne referred to these official documents, and we have requested through his Excellency Sir C. Phipps that the British Government will make known to us the facts alluded to. We repeat the request. The Government of the State have, however, never denied that crimes and offences are committed in the Congo, as in every other country or Colony. The note itself recognizes that these offences have been brought before the Tribunals, and that the criminals have been punished. The conclusion to be drawn from this is that the State fulfils its mission; the conclusion actually drawn is that “many individual instances of cruelty have taken place in the Congo State,” and that “the number of convictions falls considerably short of the number of offences actually committed.” This deduction does not appear necessarily to follow. It would seem more logical to say that the severe sentences inflicted will serve as a wholesome example, and that a decrease of crime may on that account be looked for. If some offences have indeed, in the extensive territories of the State, escaped the vigilance of the judicial authorities, this is a circumstance which is not peculiar to the Congo State. The English note proceeds chiefly on hypotheses and suppositions: “It was alleged.... It is reported.... It is also reported....” and it even says that “His Majesty’s Government do not know precisely to what extent these accusations may be true.” This is an acknowledgment that, in the eyes of the British Government themselves, the accusations in question are neither established nor proved. And, indeed, the violence, the passion, and the improbability of many of these accusations must raise doubt in an impartial mind as to their genuineness. To give but one example:--a great deal has been made of the statement that, in a train coming down from Leopoldville to Matadi, three carriages were full of slaves, a dozen of whom were in chains and guarded by soldiers. The Governor-General was asked for a report on the case. He replied: “The individuals represented as composing a convoy of slaves were, the great majority of them (125), levies proceeding from the district of Lualaba-Kasai, Lake Leopold II, and the Bangalas to the camp in the Lower Congo. Annexed you will find lists of these persons. As regards the men in chains, they were certain individuals on whom sentence had been passed by the territorial Tribunal at Basoko, and who were on their way to undergo their sentence at the central prison at Boma. They are Nos. 3642 to 3649 on the prison register at Boma.” In the same way, quite a recent “interview,” in which the usual accusations of cruelty were reproduced, is due to a person formerly in the employ of the State, who was “declared unfit for service,” and who has failed to persuade the State to accept his proposal to write for the press articles favourable to the Administration. The note ignores the replies, contradictions, and corrections which the attacks on the Agents of the State have occasioned at the various times when they have taken place. It ignores the official declarations publicly made by the Government of the State in June last, after the debate in the House of Commons on the 20th May, the report of which is annexed to the note. We also annex the text of these declarations which dealt, by anticipation, with the considerations set forth in the despatch of the 8th August. The only fresh cause of complaint which the note brings forward--doubtless with the object of explaining the not unimportant fact that the English Consul, who has resided in the Congo since 1901, does not appear to support, by his personal authority, the accusations of private individuals--is that this Agent has been “principally occupied in the investigation of complaints preferred by British subjects.” The impression which one would derive from this is that such complaints have been exceptionally numerous. No doubt the Consul has, on different occasions, communicated with the Administration at Boma in the interests of his countrymen, but the subjects of his representations, if one may judge by such of their number as the English Legation has had to bring to the notice of the Central Government at Brussels, do not appear, either in number or importance, to have been more than matters of every day administrative routine: some cases in particular concerned the regulation of the succession to property in the Congo left by deceased English subjects; the object in others was to repair errors of judicial procedure, such as occur elsewhere, and it is not even alleged that the proper action has not been taken upon these representations. The same Consul, who was appointed in 1898, wrote to the Governor-General on the 2nd July, 1901, as follows:-- “I pray believe me when I express now, not only for myself, but for my fellow-countrymen in this part of Africa, our very sincere appreciation of your efforts on behalf of the general community--efforts to promote goodwill among all and to bring together the various elements of our local life.” Nor do the predecessors of Mr. R. Casement--for English Consuls with jurisdiction in the Congo were appointed by His Majesty’s Government as long ago as 1888--appear to have been absorbed in the examination of innumerable complaints; at all events, that is not the view taken in the Report (the only one published) by Consul Pickersgill, who, by the mere fact of giving an account of his journey into the interior of the Congo as far as Stanley Falls, disproves the alleged impossibility for the English Consular Agents to form an opinion _de visu_ in regard to every part of their district. With regard to the charges against the administrative system of the State, the note deals with taxes, public armed forces, and what is termed forced labour. It is, at bottom, the contributions made by the Congo natives to the public charges which are criticized, as if there existed a single country or Colony in which the inhabitants do not, under one form or another, bear a part in such charges. A State without resources is inconceivable. On what legitimate grounds could the exemption of natives from all taxes be based, seeing that they are the first to benefit by the material and moral advantages introduced into Africa? As they have no money, a contribution in the shape of labour is required from them. It has been said that, if Africa is ever to be redeemed from barbarism, it must be by getting the negro to understand the meaning of work by the obligation of paying taxes:-- “It is a question (of native labour) which has engaged my most careful attention in connection with West Africa and other Colonies. To listen to the right honourable gentleman, you would almost think that it would be a good thing for the native to be idle. I think it is a good thing for him to be industrious; and by every means in our power we must teach him to work.... No people ever have lived in the world’s history who would not work. In the interests of the natives all over Africa, we have to teach them to work.” Such was the language used by Mr. Chamberlain in the House of Commons on the 6th August, 1901; and still more recently he expressed himself as follows:-- “We are all of us taxed, and taxed heavily. Is that a system of forced labour?... To say that because we put a tax on the native therefore he is reduced to a condition of servitude and of forced labour is, to my mind, absolutely ridiculous.... It is perfectly fair to my mind that the native should contribute something towards the cost of administering the country.” (House of Commons, the 9th March, 1903.) “If that really is the last word of civilization, if we are to proceed on the assumption that the nearer the native or any human being comes to a pig the more desirable is his condition, of course I have nothing to say.... I must continue to believe that, at all events, the progress of the native in civilization will not be secured until he has been convinced of the necessity and the dignity of labour. Therefore, I think that anything we reasonably can do to induce the native to labour is a desirable thing.” And he defended the principle of taxing the native on the ground that
to give a helping hand in organisation and training. Company messes for officers were formed, as anything in the nature of a battalion mess was impracticable. The men soon learnt that the estaminets were the equivalent in France of the public houses at home, and thither they repaired in the evening to spend their time. Many good young men who had never taken a drop of the more invigorating liquors learnt that soldiers drank them, and the cause of teetotalism began to wane. On the 24th a move was made to Les Facons, a straggling village outside Bethune. Here on quiet nights one could easily hear the fusillade in the trenches while the distant gun flashes lit up the night sky. The terrors of the trenches were coming nearer. Early in April the various companies were attached each in turn to another battalion in the Brigade, and went into the line for instruction in trench duty at Port Arthur by Neuve Chapelle, and it was here that the first casualties were sustained. It is claimed that the first shot fired by the Battalion killed an enemy sniper. The men soon learnt the duties that fell upon them as a consequence of trench warfare: the early morning stand-to, the constant vigil of the neutral ground between the lines, and the imperative necessity of keeping one's head low. Hitherto the men knew little of the nature or use of guns, but now glimmerings of the mystery surrounding artillery fire soon dawned. The men learnt the natures of German shell, and the difference between shrapnel and high explosives and what targets the enemy generally selected. Facts like these were explained to them by the "real soldiers" of the Regular units to which they were attached. On relief the Battalion marched back to Oblinghem once more, where it stayed a week or two, and later in the month took over a portion of the line at Richebourg St. Vaast where it was subjected to a very heavy artillery bombardment on the 1st May. The military training of the men can be said to have been complete as regards pre-war standard, but the war had introduced the use of two new instruments of death. One was gas, the other the bomb. A primitive form of respirator was given out in consequence of the use by the Germans of chlorine at the Second Battle of Ypres. Instruction was given in the use of bombs, of which the men had hitherto no knowledge. In those days the bomb first in use was the jam-tin bomb. The men were taught how to cut fuses, fix them into the detonator, attach the lighter and wire the whole together preparatory for use against the enemy. Jam-tin bombs were soon discarded for the Bethune bomb, and there was no regular bomb until much later, when the use of the Mills bomb became universal. The Hairbrush and Hales bombs were also studied in addition to the Bethune. A few also received some instruction in a rather primitive form of trench mortar. In April, Lieut.-Colonel Lloyd, V.D., was invalided home, and in his stead Major T.J. Bolland took over the command of the Battalion. THE BATTLE OF AUBERS RIDGE The disastrous enterprise of the 9th May was the first major action of the war in which the "Ninth" took part. Shattered at its inception, the whole attack soon came to an end. The lack of high explosive shells and the consequent failure of the British artillery to destroy the enemy wire entanglements were probably the main causes of the holocaust that took place on that day. Though one of the biggest disasters the British arms sustained throughout the war, it was scarcely noted in the newspapers, and would seem to a casual observer quite insignificant compared with the sinking of the "Lusitania," which had taken place some days before, although in the battle it is believed that the 2nd Infantry Brigade lost a bigger proportion of men than had ever been previously known in warfare. On the 8th May, the Battalion took up its battle position in rear of the Rue du Bois at Richebourg l'Avoué, and there awaited the attack on the morrow. The detail that obtained in battle orders of later dates was wanting, in view of the fact that greater responsibility was in the early days placed upon Commanding Officers. The Battalion was to support the attack as the third wave. The flanks were given and in the event of an advance the Battalion was to keep Chocolat Menier Corner on its immediate right. The fight commenced with an ordinary bombardment of forty minutes chiefly by field pieces, which according to the text book are primarily intended not for bombardment but for use against personnel. A battery of heavy howitzers was also in action. The ordinary bombardment was followed by an intense bombardment of ten minutes. At 5-30 a.m. the Battalion advanced to the third line of trenches immediately in rear of the Rue du Bois, and several losses attributable to machine guns and shells were sustained. At 6-0 a.m. the Battalion was continuing the advance to the support line when the 2nd King's Royal Rifles asked for immediate support in the attack. The Battalion therefore passed over the support line and quickly reached the front line. The advent of a fresh unit made confusion the worse confounded. The trenches which afforded little shelter were filled with men, and the enemy was using his artillery freely. Machine guns in profusion were disgorging their several streams of bullets. Communication trenches had been blotted out. Despite the lessons of Neuve Chapelle there was no effective liaison between artillery and infantry as the telephone wires were soon cut, and as a consequence the inferno was intensified by the short firing of the British artillery, a battery of 6-inch howitzers being the chief offender. Numerous casualties had been suffered, and among them was the Commanding Officer, who was killed. The command then passed to Major J.W.B. Hunt, who decided that it was useless to attempt to assault the enemy position without further artillery preparation, as the enemy's barbed wire was practically intact, and the only two gaps that were available were covered by enemy machine guns. A report on the situation was made to Brigadier-General Thesiger, and instructions were received that on no account was the Battalion to leave the front line, and it was to hold the same against a possible and probable counter attack by the enemy. At 10-0 a.m. the Battalion was ordered to prepare to take part in a second attack to be launched at 11-15 a.m. Half an hour later a further order postponed the second attack until 12-30 p.m. Thousands had failed to take the objectives in the early morning, and it was unlikely that hundreds would succeed in the afternoon. This attack was ultimately cancelled, and at 4-0 p.m. the Battalion was withdrawn. A further attack was delivered in vain at 4-30 p.m. by other regiments in the Division. Though the Battalion unfortunately accomplished little, it sustained almost a hundred casualties, but it was fortunate in that it escaped the same fate as befell four of the Battalions in the Brigade which were almost annihilated. The battle from almost every point of view was a dismal failure, and the rate of casualties was perhaps the highest then recorded. It was during the 4-30 p.m. attack that the men were privileged to witness one of the most magnificent episodes of the war, which was the advance made by the 1st Battalion Black Watch and the 1st Battalion Cameron Highlanders. This was carried out with parade-like precision in face of a most withering rifle and machine-gun fire, out of which scarcely half a dozen of those brave fellows returned. Relieved in the evening, the "Ninth" marched to Essars and the next day to billets at Bethune, and it was not until the 20th day of the month that the Battalion was again in line, this time at Cambrin. It had now come under the command of Major F.W. Ramsay, a regular officer from the Middlesex Regiment. The remainder of the month of May and the month of June were spent at Cambrin and Cuinchy, this latter place being renowned even in those days for its minenwerfer activity. The Cambrin sector had good deep trenches made by the French pioneers, which were strong, well timbered and comfortable. This was the first occasion the Battalion occupied trenches as distinguished from breast-works. Hitherto the nature of the ground had made trenches impossible. The trenches at Cuinchy were in front of a row of brickstacks, and in consequence of the water-logged nature of a portion of the front were only dug three feet down, and a sand-bag parapet was built; the trenches were not duckboarded, and were in consequence wet. Around each brickstack was built a keep, and this was garrisoned by a platoon in each case. Every time an enemy projectile hit a brickstack large quantities of broken bricks were scattered as splinters which multiplied the killing effect of the shell. In this sector there was considerable mining activity. The mine shafts, of which there were about three per company frontage, were each manned by two men who acted as listeners. As the front lines were only about twenty-five yards apart there was a considerable exchange of grenades. No cooking was allowed in the trenches, as the smoke which would have been occasioned by cooking would only have encouraged enemy fire. Therefore ration and hot food parties had to go four times a day along a communication trench called Boyau Maison Rouge, one and a half miles long, and which was not duckboarded. After heavy rain it became very muddy, and the men cut down their trousers which led to the adoption of shorts throughout. Hosetops were improvised by cutting the feet off socks and later they were bought. The colour ranged at first from light heliotrope to flatman's blue, but later was standardized as salmon pink. The expense of providing these hosetops was a heavy drain on any available funds, but fortunately friends of the Battalion came to the rescue. On relief from the Cambrin trenches on the 7th July the Battalion spent a little over a fortnight in Brigade and Divisional Reserves at Sailly Labourse and the Faubourg d'Arras in Bethune respectively. On the 25th it was in line at Vermelles. This sector was quiet except in that portion which was opposite the Hohenzollern Redoubt, from which huge aerial torpedoes were fired. August was spent doing tours of duty in Annequin and Vermelles. During the last tour in Vermelles the whole Battalion assembled every night in no man's land and successfully dug under fire jumping-off trenches for the forthcoming operations, the casualties being comparatively few, owing to the speed with which the men dug. During the first three weeks in September, the Battalion was out of the line and spent most of the time at Burbure, a quiet little village outside Lillers, where the men enjoyed a period of peace well removed from the battle zone. The training was devoted almost entirely to the practice of the attack preparatory to the impending fight. During the summer a horse show took place in the First Division, and the "Ninth" secured all the prizes for mules, the first prize for a field kitchen and two jumping prizes, thus obtaining the second place in the Division for the total number of marks gained. This was a signal honour for a Territorial unit, and perhaps came as a surprise to some of the Regular soldiers, who thought that they were "the people." This demonstrated the fact that though the Battalion had but a few months' experience of active service, it had soon accustomed itself to the rigours of warfare, and that the transport section at any rate had attained a high pitch of efficiency. The horse shows which were held from time to time as occasion permitted provided diversions and did much to maintain a high standard of efficiency in the first line transport. Improvements had been effected in the organisation of the Regiment since its advent to France. Clothing and food became more plentiful and the latter was better cooked. Efforts were made to improve the comfort of the men in billets. Proper sanitation was rigorously observed. Officers were encouraged to display the greatest solicitude for the welfare of the men, and the cumulative effect of these measures resulted in improved morale. THE BATTLE OF LOOS. For three weeks in September the Battalion practised the attack in Burbure, which it left on the 20th. Before leaving Burbure an amusing incident took place. The Battalion had paraded and was ready to move off. Suddenly two young women who were watching dashed into the ranks, embraced two of the men, kissed them with resounding smacks, and then disappeared in the gloom. The consternation of the two men caused great amusement to all. The "Ninth" moved up by stages, marching via Lapugnoy and Verquin, to its battle position in trenches by Le Rutoire Farm, which it reached on the 24th. The Battalion and the London Scottish formed a body called "Green's Force," to which was given as a first objective the German front line trenches in the vicinity of Lone Tree, as this objective was left uncovered by the diverging advance of the 1st Brigade on the right and the 2nd Brigade on the left. In the grey light of the morning on the 25th September the British guns opened with a furious fire after many days of artillery preparation. The great battle had begun. For some time, and according to orders, the Battalion remained in its position. It was not to advance before 8-0 a.m. At this time the men left the assembly trench to move over the open to the front line. The enemy machine gunners had the range, and several were wounded almost on leaving the trench. The advance was made by sectional rushes, each section seeking what cover there was. Those who were wounded while actually advancing in many cases received slight wounds, but those that were hit while lying down were generally killed, as the bullets struck them in the head or traversed the vital organs for the length of the body. It required a courageous heart to advance seeing one's comrades thus desperately wounded or lying dead. The shell fire was not heavy, and few casualties were attributable to it. Lieutenant-Colonel Ramsay led the attack in person, and he was easily recognisable by the wand which he carried. One of the Battalion machine guns was pushed forward about 2-0 p.m. and under the covering fire it afforded the advance was continued. The advance had been slow and losses were severe, but at 3-30 p.m. the men had succeeded in establishing themselves in one line about a hundred yards from the German trenches. A few minutes afterwards the Germans surrendered, and between three and four hundred prisoners were taken. They chiefly belonged to the 59th and 157th Infantry Regiments. A harvest of souvenirs was reaped by the men, many of whom secured the then coveted Pickelhaube helmet. The prisoners were sent to the rear, and the Battalion continued the advance and ultimately established a line on the Lens-Hulluch Road. It is to be observed that the Battalion was the only one that got its field kitchens up to the village of Loos on the first day of the battle. At 4-0 a.m. next morning the Battalion was withdrawn to the old British line. Later in the day it moved forward to the old German trench system as reserve in the continued operations, sustaining several gas and shell casualties. On the 28th September the Battalion moved back to Mazingarbe, as the men thought, for a rest. They were soon disappointed. At 7 p.m. on the same day orders were received to take up a position at the Slag Heap or Fosse at Loos, known as London Bridge. At 9-0 p.m. the Battalion left its billets in a deluge of rain and marched back to the line in splendid spirits in spite of the fatigue resulting from the recent fighting. It was relieved from the trenches on the 30th September, and after one night spent in the ruined houses of Loos went to Noeux-les-Mines for a few days to re-organise and re-equip. On the 7th October the Battalion returned to the front line which was alongside the Lens-Hulluch Road to the north of Loos. The trench had evidently once been the ditch on the side of the road. It was very shallow, and it was decided to deepen it the next night as the men were too tired after their long march. This was a good resolution, but it was not carried out. The enemy commenced next morning about half-past ten with heavy shell fire. In the afternoon it became intense and an attack seemed imminent. There was no shelter in the shallow trench, as there had not been sufficient time to make any dugouts. The men could do nothing but wait. Minutes seemed hours. The shelling appeared endless. So terrific was the enemy fire that it was doubted by the artillery observers in rear whether any of the front line garrison was left alive. All who might be lucky enough to escape physical destruction would at any rate be morally broken. The Germans who had concentrated in the Bois Hugo attacked about 4-30 p.m. They were repulsed by rifle and machine gun fire, and it is gratifying to know that two of the Battalion machine guns caught the enemy in enfilade and executed great havoc. So exhausted were the men that the Battalion was relieved that night and taken to the neighbourhood of Le Rutoire Farm. Acquitting themselves with a noble fortitude, the stretcher bearers--whose task was, perhaps, the worst of all--remained and toiled all night in evacuating the trenches of the wounded. To stretcher bearers fall the most trying duties in war, but in accounts of battles little mention is made of their efforts. While the fight is on they share all the dangers of the private soldier, and often they have to remain when the others are relieved to finish their duty. The terrible sights of open wounds, bodies that have been minced by shell splinters, torn off limbs, dying men uttering their last requests, are enough to unnerve the bravest men. The stretcher bearers nevertheless continue with their task, well knowing what fate may soon befall them. For the second time in a fortnight the 9th King's had been called upon to play an important part, and worthily had the men acquitted themselves on each occasion. The following letters were received by the Battalion and show the value of the good work done:-- To G.O.C., IV. Corps. This was a fine performance and reflects the greatest credit on all ranks. I particularly admire the splendid tenacity displayed by our infantry in holding on to their trenches during so many long hours of heavy shell fire, and the skill with which they so gloriously repulsed with bomb and rifle the enemy's most determined onslaught. Our gunners, too, must be complimented on their timely and accurate shooting. And lastly the Commanders, from General Davies downward, deserve praise for the successful combination of the two arms, for the handling of their units, and for the well-judged advance of the supports to the aid of those in the fire trenches. I am very glad to hear of the great deeds of the 9th Battalion Liverpool Regiment on the 8th October. They have proved themselves most worthy comrades of the 1st Liverpools who started with me from Aldershot and have consistently fought like heroes all through the campaign. Please convey my very hearty congratulation to all concerned and to the 1st Division, in which I am proud to see the determined fighting spirit is as strong as ever, in spite of heavy losses. D. HAIG, General, Commanding 1st Army. 10th October, 1915. * * * * * To 1st Division. In forwarding Sir Douglas Haig's remarks, I desire to endorse every word he says, and to congratulate the Division on the well deserved praise it has received from the Army Commander. I hope before long to see them personally and to speak to them on parade. H.S. RAWLINSON, Lieut.-General, Commanding IV. Corps. 11th October, 1915. * * * * * 1st Div. No. 604/2 (G). To 2nd Infantry Brigade. The General Officer Commanding wishes to place on record his appreciation of the steady defence made by the 2nd Infantry Brigade against the German attack yesterday afternoon. He especially wishes to commend the soldierly qualities and discipline displayed by the 9th Liverpool Regiment and the 1st Gloucesters, which enabled them to endure the heavy shelling to which our front trenches were subjected, and there to meet and repulse with great loss the German infantry attack. The result of yesterday's attack again proves how powerless the enemy's artillery is against good infantry, properly entrenched and the superiority of our own infantry over that of the enemy at close quarters. The General Officer Commanding wishes to record his appreciation of the good work done by the artillery in support of the infantry. H. LONGRIDGE, Lieut.-Colonel, General Staff, 1st Division. 9th October, 1915. * * * * * The above remarks were communicated to the men, and they were all very proud of the achievement of their unit and that it had so highly distinguished itself in the defence of their country. For a few days the Battalion remained in support, sending forth working parties each night for the battle that was still continuing. On the 13th October the 1st Division attacked the village of Hulluch. An intense barrage was directed against the enemy trenches in the early part of the afternoon, and after a discharge of cloud gas an attempt was made in vain to reach the enemy trenches. The 9th was held in close support, ready to exploit any success that was gained, but, unfortunately, the attack was a total failure. The Battalion came in for some very heavy retaliatory shell fire. On the 14th October the Battalion was taken out of the line and marched to Noeux-les-Mines, where it entrained for Lillers. Here the men were accommodated in houses in the centre of the town in the vicinity of the Church and the Rue Fanien. The billets were good, the parades not severe, and several of the officers who were well quartered felt to some extent the comforts of a home. The training area was near Burbure, where the Battalion had trained for the battle. Many faces were missing that had been present at the jovial little gatherings that had taken place before the battle, and the survivors wondered at times who would be wanting at the next divisional rest. As the parades were not onerous, there was plenty of time for recreation. Concerts were arranged in the local concert hall at which the latent talent of the Battalion came into evidence. Leave opened, and the prospect of a trip to England was cheering to those who expected one. The rest at Lillers was pleasantly spent and it was a long time before the men enjoyed a similar holiday. On the 15th November the Battalion paraded on the Church Square and then marched to Houchin, a particularly dirty little village, where a week was spent. From there it went to Brigade Reserve in the mining village of Philosophe, in which, though very close to the line, a few civilians still remained. Butter, milk and other articles of food could be obtained from the French shop-keepers, and English newspapers could be bought in the streets the day after publication. It was a fairly quiet place, though one's hours were punctuated by the intermittent firing of a battery of 4·7 guns in the colliery in rear, which fired over the billets. One of the Regular battalions of the 3rd Infantry Brigade was too weak in numbers to do trench duty, and the 9th had the honour of replacing it, and on the 26th November the Battalion found itself once more in the front line and in exactly the same position as the one in which it had so signally distinguished itself on the 8th October. Snow was lying on the ground and it was freezing hard. Henceforth the men were to know the hardships of a winter campaign. There were no deep dugouts and there were not sufficient shelters for the men to sleep in. During the course of the winter, exposure alone killed some. Ever since the battle the Loos sector had been very active, especially on Sundays, and the trenches and alleys which led up to them were in a very wet condition. The numbers lost in the recent fighting had not been made up, and "C" Company, the weakest, had a trench strength all told of only 67 officers and men. The relief from the front line on the night of the 29th November was particularly severe. Following the frost came rain on that particular day, and the relief was carried out on a very black night in a steady downpour, and everyone was quickly wet through. The trenches filled with water and the men had first to wade through deep sludge and then over rain-sodden ground ankle-deep in mud. The men's clothes became caked with the mud from the sides of the trench, which increased the weight to be carried. During the tours of duty in this sector the paucity of the numbers and the length of the communication trenches made the difficulties of food supply very great. Behind the front line in the Loos sector was a devastated region extending backwards for over two miles. There seemed a big gap between the front line and any form of civilisation. Usable roads were wanting, so that the transport could not approach near to the Battalion. Consequently each company had to detail its own ration party of twenty to twenty-five men, and these would assemble just after dusk and wander along Posen or Hay Alley back to the vicinity of Lone Tree, and there pick up the rations and water from the transport wagons. The communication trenches contained a lot of water and caused great hardship to those men who were not fortunate enough to possess gum boots. These ration fatigues lasted from three to five hours, after which the men had to continue their trench duties. Each man cooked his rations as best he could, in his own mess tin; this meant that he did not get a hot meal which was so badly needed in the intensely cold weather. In this sector there was a great shortage of water. Washing and shaving were impossible, and at times there was not enough to drink. On one occasion a man was known to have scraped the hoar frost off the sandbags to assuage his thirst, and some drank the dirty water that was to be found in shell craters. At this time there was a great danger of a gas attack, and it was customary to have a bugler on duty in the front line to sound the alarm when gas was seen coming over--a scheme which was scarcely likely to be efficacious, for in a few moments he would have been gassed himself. Each man had two anti-gas helmets--one with a mica window, and the other with glass eyepieces and a tube through which to breathe out, and which was known later as a P.H. helmet. There were Vermorel Sprayers here and there in the trench, which were entrusted to the care of the sanitary men. Instruction was given from time to time in anti-gas precautions, but viewed from a subsequent standpoint these defensive measures were not good. Steel helmets were in possession of the bombers, who were then called "Grenadiers," and wore little red cloth grenades on their arms. These helmets were called "bombing hats," and regarded as a nuisance. Each man of the Battalion had a leather jerkin and a water-proof cape, and the majority had a pair of long gum boots. There was only one Verey light pistol in each company, and this was carried by the officer on duty. There was no special S.O.S. signal to the artillery. Telephonic communication from the front line existed, and this was freely used. It was not known at the time that the enemy had evolved a means whereby he could hear these conversations. To prevent an illness known as "trench feet" each man had to grease his feet daily with whale oil, which was an ordeal on a bitterly cold day in wet, muddy trenches. With such meticulous care was this done that the Battalion had not more than three cases of trench feet during the whole of that winter--a circumstance which reflects much credit on the men. The defence scheme at this time was to hold the front line in the greatest strength available, and the supports were rather far away. The system of echeloned posts had not yet been developed. Machine guns were kept in the first trench and on account of the intense cold had to be dismounted and kept by lighted braziers to keep the lubricating oil and water in their jackets from freezing. The entanglement in front was very poor and consisted only of one fence. When not in the line the Battalion rested at Noeux-les-Mines or Mazingarbe. At this latter village Christmas Day was spent. Companies were told to make their own arrangements for providing the men with a good dinner on this day. The officers provided the funds and the difficulties of supply were overcome through the aid of Monsieur Levacon, the French interpreter attached to the Battalion. Pigs and extra vegetables were bought; apples and oranges came from somewhere. After great exertions a few barrels of beer came on the scene. Christmas puddings came from England. The school at Mazingarbe made an excellent dining room for two of the companies and through the kindness of a Royal Engineer company in the village the officers were able to secure the necessary timber to improvise tables and chairs. The dinner was a great success and contributed not a little to the good feeling which existed between officers and men. The next day the Battalion returned to the line. Though not known at the time this was to be the last tour of duty with the 1st Division. Early in January the truth became known that the Battalion was to leave the Division, and on the 7th it proceeded by train to Hocquincourt. In the 1st Division it had had the honour of serving alongside some of the most illustrious regiments of the Regular Army. The example set by these famous regiments was readily copied, and in some respects emulated, and it is not untrue to say that none of these Regular battalions assumed an air of superiority, but displayed a sense of admiration that Territorial soldiers could have so quickly learnt the profession of war. So good was the human material in the Battalion that, in the space of a few months spent on active service, a body of men picked in a desultory fashion from various trades and occupations was quickly formed into an entity which was able to take its place alongside experienced units of the Army. The Regiment had already won its laurels at the Battle of Loos. Its glorious achievements were known in Liverpool. It was a Battalion to which all its members were proud to belong. The fame of a military body is a bond of unity which those who have not been soldiers can scarcely understand. The reputation of one's regiment is a matter of personal pride. It is a kind of cement which holds it together at all times. The old spirit soon permeates the newcomers, the recruits become imbued with the spirit which led the veterans to victory, and so it was with this Battalion. CHAPTER III. THE 55TH DIVISION. The West Lancashire Division was formed in the Hallencourt area under the command of Major-General H.S. Jeudwine, and given the number 55. The Battalion entered the 165th Infantry Brigade in this Division. This brigade which was commanded by Brigadier-General F.J. Duncan, was entirely composed of Liverpool battalions, namely, the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 9th King's. In the Brigade the officers and men had the pleasure of meeting friends they had known at home in Liverpool, comrades with whom they were destined to serve for the next two years, principally in Artois and Ypres. Friendly rivalry soon sprang up between the various battalions in the Brigade which made for efficiency and put all on their "mettle." Everyone naturally believed that his was the battalion par excellence, not only in the Brigade but in the whole Division. The 9th was first billeted in Hocquincourt, a little French village near Hallencourt. Viewed from a distance the village looked picturesque, with the red tiled roofs of the houses contrasted against the sombre winter sky, but a closer inspection revealed a different picture. The houses were rickety, the billets poor, and the conditions insanitary. So backward were the peasants in agriculture that they still adhered to the use of the old-fashioned flails for thrashing corn. The Battalion moved on the 20th January to Mérélessart about two miles away, where better quarters were found particularly for the Battalion headquarters, which occupied a somewhat pretentious chateau replete with all modern conveniences including baths, which were very unusual in private houses in the war area. Here the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Ramsay, D.S.O., left the Battalion on his promotion to the rank of Brigadier-General. Before he left he made a speech to the men and published the following "Farewell Order":-- On relinquishing command of the Battalion to take over command of the 48th Infantry Brigade, the Commanding Officer wishes to express his regret at leaving the Regiment, which he has had the honour of commanding for the last eight months, and his gratitude for the loyal way in which all ranks have supported him. The Commanding Officer is very sensible of the fact that the excellent work done by the Regiment has gained for him his decoration and promotion. Later in the war he received promotion and commanded the 58th (London) Division as Major General. While at Mérélessart the usual training took place. There was little work done as a complete unit not much attention being paid to tactical work. A rifle range was at the disposal of the Battalion on which the companies were able to fire a few practices and so keep up their musketry. It is worthy of remark that of the officers serving with the companies at this time approximately two-thirds were subsequently killed during the course of the war, while the survivors were almost all wounded at some time or other. Early in February orders came along to the effect that the Division was to go into line, and on the 6th February the Battalion left Mérélessart and marched to Longpré where the night was spent, and the next day it reached Berteaucourt-les-Dames. A few days were spent here, during which Major C.P. James took over the command of the Battalion, and afterwards it marched via Doullens to Amplier, and after a night's rest in some huts there it reached Berles-au-Bois the next day. En route it passed through Pas, where there was a steep hill which presented such difficulties to the transport section that they remembered it when they returned in two year's time. At Berles-au-Bois the men were billeted in the ruined village. This was the first experience the Battalion had of a really tranquil front. This village lay within a mile of the front line, and it seemed uncanny to be so near the enemy and yet to hear so few shots fired. Indeed it was almost too good to be true. The unit did not take over the defence of this area, and orders came soon that on the 15th the Battalion was to take over a sector on the Wailly front, where it was to relieve a battalion of the 81ième Régiment Territoriale. Accordingly very early in the morning of that day the Battalion marched to Monchiet in sleet and rain under cover of darkness along roads which in daylight were exposed to the view of the enemy, and on arrival the short day was spent in endeavouring to get dry. Monchiet later became the location of the transport lines and Quartermaster
my studies, excepting a propensity I indulged for writing verses, many of which were preserved to amuse, others to tease me for many years. Colonel Stone had closed his series of common schools, and opened a special institution on “Oxford Plain,” known as the “Oxford High School.” Its fame had spread for miles around, and it was regarded as the _Ultima Thule_ for teachers, and in a manner a stepping stone or opening door to Harvard and Yale. My brother Stephen had succeeded Col. Stone in the winter terms of the home school, and my sisters mainly had charge of them in summer. Thus six months of each year offered little change, the others were long vacations in which the out-of-doors played by far the most prominent part. There were garden and flower beds to be made, choice pet animals to look after, a few needy families with little children to be thought of, and some sewing to be attempted. These latter were in accordance with my mother’s recommendations. I recall no season of dolls, and believe they were never included in my curriculum. Meantime, I fell heir to my mother’s side saddle, a beautiful piece of workmanship, and with some difficulty learned to adjust myself to it, a rather useless adjustment it seemed to me at the time, which opinion I still entertain. These were years of change in the family. My brothers had become of age and were young men of strength, character and enterprise. They had “bought out” as the term went, the two large farms of my father, and commenced business in earnest for themselves. My father had purchased another farm of some three hundred acres, a few miles nearer the center of the town. This was a place of note, having been one of the points used for security against the Indians by the old Huguenot Settlers of Oxford, and which has made the town historic. Their main defense was on “Fort Hill,” several miles to the east. I was naturally greatly interested in the changes, and doubtless gave them all the time I could spare from my increasing studies. I can recollect even now that my life seemed very full for a little girl of eight years. During the preceding winter I began to hear talk of my going away to school, and it was decided that I be sent to Col. Stone’s High school, to board in his family and go home occasionally. This arrangement, I learned in later years, had a double object. I was what is known as a bashful child, timid in the presence of other persons, a condition of things found impossible to correct at home. In the hope of overcoming this undesirable _mauvais honte_, it was decided to throw me among strangers. How well I remember my advent. My father took me in his carriage with a little dressing case which I dignified with the appellation of “trunk”—something I had never owned. It was April—cold and bare. The house and school rooms adjoined, and seemed enormously large. The household was also large. The long family table with the dignified preceptor, my loved and feared teacher at three years, at its head, seemed to me something formidable. There were probably one hundred and fifty pupils daily in the ample school rooms, of which I was perhaps the youngest, except the colonel’s own children. My studies were chosen with great care. I remember among them, ancient history with charts. The lessons were learned to repeat by rote. I found difficulty both in learning the proper names and in pronouncing them, as I had not quite outgrown my lisp. One day I had studied very hard on the Ancient Kings of Egypt, and thought I had everything perfect, and when the pupil above me failed to give the name of a reigning king, I answered very promptly that it was “Potlomy.” The colonel checked with a glance the rising laugh of the older members of the class, and told me, very gently, that the P was silent in that word. I had, however, seen it all, and was so overcome by mortification for my mistake, and gratitude for the kindness of my teacher, that I burst into tears and was permitted to leave the room. [Illustration: COLONEL RICHARD C. STONE, MY TEACHER AT THREE YEARS OF AGE. ] I am not sure that I was really homesick, but the days seemed very long, especially Sundays. I was in constant dread of doing something wrong, and one Sunday afternoon I was sure I had found my occasion. It was early spring. The tender leaves had put out and with them the buds and half open blossoms of the little cinnamon roses, an unfailing ornamentation of a well kept New England home of that day. The children of the family had gathered in the front yard, admiring the roses and daring to pick each a little bouquet. As I stood holding mine, the heavy door at my back swung open, and there was the colonel, in his long, light dressing gown and slippers, direct from his study. A kindly spoken “come with me, Clara,” nearly took my last breath. I followed his strides through all the house, up the long flights of stairs, through the halls of the school rooms, silently wondering what I had done more than the others. I knew he was by no means wont to spare his own children. I had my handful of roses—so had they. I knew it was very wrong to have picked them, but why more wrong for me than for the others? At length, and it seemed to me an hour, we reached the colonel’s study, and there, advancing to meet us, was the Reverend Mr. Chandler, the pastor of our Universalist church, whom I knew well. He greeted me very politely and kindly, and handed the large, open school reader which he held, to the colonel, who put it into my hands, placed me a little in front of them, and pointing to a column of blank verse, very gently directed me to read it. It was an extract from Campbell’s “Pleasures of Hope,” commencing, “Unfading hope, when life’s last embers burn.” I read it to the end, a page or two. When finished, the good pastor came quickly and relieved me of the heavy book, and I wondered why there were tears in his eyes. The colonel drew me to him, gently stroked my short cropped hair, went with me down the long steps, and told me I could “go back to the children and play.” I went much more easy in mind than I came, but it was years before I comprehended anything about it. My studies gave me no trouble, but I grew very tired, felt hungry all the time but dared not eat, grew thin and pale. The colonel noticed it, and watching me at table found that I was eating little or nothing, refusing everything that was offered me. Mistrusting that it was from timidity, he had food laid on my plate, but I dared not eat it, and finally at the end of the term a consultation was held between the colonel, my father and our beloved family physician, Dr. Delano Pierce, who lived within a few doors of the school, and it was decided to take me home until a little older, and wiser, I could hope. My timid sensitiveness must have given great annoyance to my friends. If I ever could have gotten entirely over it, it would have given far less annoyance and trouble to myself all through life. To this day, I would rather stand behind the lines of artillery at Antietam, or cross the pontoon bridge under fire at Fredericksburg, than to be expected to preside at a public meeting. Referring to the breaking up of the first home, and the removal of my father and mother to the new one, it might be well to state the reasons for the change. A favorite nephew of my father, Mr. Jeremiah Larned, had died after a lingering illness, leaving a widow and four children, from thirteen to six years of age, on the fine farm which had descended to him from his father, Captain Jeremiah Larned, one of the leading men of the town. Unfortunately, during his long illness the farm had become involved to the extent of necessitating a sale. This would result in depriving the widow and her small children of a home, and in order to prevent this, and the disadvantages of a creditor’s sale, it was decided that my father and a brother-in-law of Mrs. Larned, Captain Sylvester McIntire, who had no children, purchase the farm, and remove there, keeping the widow and children with them. The hill farms—for there were two—were sold to my brothers, who, entering into partnership, constituted the well known firm of S. & D. Barton, continuing mainly through their lives. Thus I became the occupant of two homes, my sisters remaining with my brothers, none of whom were married. The removal to the second home was a great novelty to me. I became observant of all changes made. One of the first things found necessary on entering a house of such ancient date, was a rather extensive renovation, for those days, of painting and papering. The leading artisan in that line in the town was Mr. Sylvanus Harris, a courteous man of fine manners, good scholarly acquirements, and who, for nearly half a lifetime, filled the office of town clerk. The records of Oxford will bear his name and his beautiful handwriting as long as its records exist. Mr. Harris was engaged to make the necessary improvements. Painting included more then than in these later days of prepared material. The painter brought his massive white marble slab, ground his own paints, mixed his colors, boiled his oil, calcined his plaster, made his putty and did scores of things that a painter of to-day would not only never think of doing, but would often scarcely know how to do. Coming from the newly built house where I was born, I had seen nothing of this kind done, and was intensely interested. I must have persisted in making myself very numerous, for I was constantly reminded not to “get in the gentleman’s way.” But I was not to be set aside. My combined interest and curiosity for once overcame my timidity, and encouraged by the mild, genial face of Mr. Harris, I gathered the courage to walk up in front and address him: “Will you teach me to paint, sir?” “With pleasure, little lady, if mama is willing, I should very much like your assistance.” The consent was forthcoming, and so was a gown suited to my new work, and I reported for duty. I question if any ordinary apprentice was ever more faithfully and intelligently instructed in his first month’s apprenticeship. I was taught how to hold my brushes, to take care of them, allowed to help grind my paints, shown how to mix and blend them, how to make putty and use it, to prepare oils and dryings, and learned from experience that boiling oil was a great deal hotter than boiling water, was taught to trim paper neatly, to match and help to hang it, to make the most approved paste, and even varnished the kitchen chairs to the entire satisfaction of my mother, which was triumph enough for one little girl. So interested was I, that I never wearied of my work for a day, and at the end of a month looked on sadly as the utensils, brushes, buckets and great marble slab were taken away. There was not a room that I had not helped to make better; there were no longer mysteries in paint and paper. I knew them all, and that work would bring callouses even on little hands. When the work was finished and everything gone, I went to my room, lonesome in spite of myself. I found on my candle stand a box containing a pretty little locket, neatly inscribed, “To a faithful worker.” No one seemed to have any knowledge of it, and I never gained any. The new home presented a phase of life quite unfamiliar to me. From never having had any playmates, I now found myself one of a very lively body of six—three boys and three girls nearer of an age than would have been probable in the same family. My father had taken charge of the young son of a friend—Lovett Stimpson—a fine, robust, intelligent lad of about my age, who lived with us. It would be difficult to describe what this new life, for the time it continued, became to me, or indeed I to it. As I look back upon it I realize that we were a group of good children with honorable instincts, obedient and kindly disposed. In later years none of us could recall a serious difference of any kind, no cruelty and no broken faith. It took just six, and no more, to keep a secret. But this portrayal of characteristics gives no clue to, indeed casts no shadow, of what we were capable of accomplishing in a day. The territorial domain comprised something over three hundred acres. We knew it all. From “Peakèd Hill,” to “Jim Brown’s”—across the “Flowed Swamp,” three miles, we knew every rod of it. Old “Rocky Hills,” so high, so steep, so thickly wooded that a horse would never attempt them, were no strangers. We knew where the best chestnuts were. We explored the “Devil’s Den,” in spite of the tradition that it was an abode for the tempters of Eve. The “French River,” that later carried all the factories of North Oxford, spread itself out in lazy rest, after its rugged leaps, as it meandered through the broad, beautiful meadows and interval land, the pride of the farm. A long hewn log or pole stretched across it in its narrowest, deepest place. I would not dare to say how long, but it could not have been more than fourteen inches wide, and swayed and teetered from the moment the foot touched till it left it. The waters glided still and black beneath. It was there as a convenience for the working men in crossing from one field to another; but if ever a week day passed that we did not cross it several times, we knew one duty had been neglected. The only sawmill in that section of the town was a part of my father’s possessions. The great up-and-down saw cut its angry way through the primeval forest giants from morning till night, and not unfrequently from night till morning. The long saw-carriage ran far out over the raceway at the rear end. How were we to withstand the temptation of riding out over the rushing mill stream twenty feet below, and then coming quickly in as the sawn log was drawn back for another cut? Hurt? Never one of us. Killed? We knew not such a thing could be. There were three temptingly great barns, scattered between the house premises and the interval. Was there ever a better opportunity for hide-and-seek, for climbing and jumping? It would have been no athlete at all that couldn’t jump from the great beams to the hay, in scant summer time before the new hay came in, and land on the feet safely. There was, and still is, directly in front of the house, a small, circular, natural pond, fed by springs in the bottom and surrounded by a cordon of hills forming a basin in which the little pond basks and sleeps through the summer, but in winter becomes a thing of beauty and a joy forever to the skater. From its sheltered position it freezes smooth, even, and glare, and has no danger spots. I dwell upon this description, for that little pond was my early love; the home of my beautiful flock of graceful ducks. The boys were all fine skaters; I wanted to skate, too, but skating had not then become customary, in fact, not even allowable for girls; and when, one day, my father saw me sitting on the ice attempting to put on a pair of skates, he seemed shocked, recommended me to the house, and said something about “tomboys.” But this did not cure my desire; nor could I understand why it was not as well for me to skate as for the boys; I was as strong, could run as fast and ride better, indeed they would not have presumed to approach me with a horse. Neither could the boys understand it, and this misconception led them into an error and me into trouble. One clear, cold, starlight Sunday morning, I heard a low whistle under my open chamber window. I realized that the boys were out for a skate and wanted to communicate with me. On going to the window, they informed me that they had an extra pair of skates and if I could come out they would put them on me and “learn” me how to skate. It was Sunday morning; no one would be up till late, and the ice was so smooth and “glare.” The stars were bright, the temptation was too great. I was in my dress in a moment and out. The skates were fastened on firmly, one of the boy’s wool neck “comforters” tied about my waist, to be held by the boy in front. The other two were to stand on either side, and at a signal the cavalcade started. Swifter and swifter we went, until at length we reached a spot where the ice had been cracked and was full of sharp edges. These threw me, and the speed with which we were progressing, and the distance before we could quite come to a stop, gave terrific opportunity for cuts and wounded knees. The opportunity was not lost. There was more blood flowing than any of us had ever seen. Something must be done. Now all of the wool neck comforters came into requisition; my wounds were bound up, and I was helped into the house, with one knee of ordinary respectable cuts and bruises; the other frightful. Then the enormity of the transaction and its attendant difficulties began to present themselves, and how to surround (for there was no possibility of overcoming them), was the question. The most feasible way seemed to be to say nothing about it, and we decided to all keep silent; but how to conceal the limp? I must have no limp, but walk well. I managed breakfast without notice. Dinner not quite so well, and I had to acknowledge that I had slipped down and hurt my knee a little. This gave my limp more latitude, but the next day it was so decided, that I was held up and searched. It happened that the best knee was inspected; the stiff wool comforter soaked off, and a suitable dressing given it. This was a great relief, as it afforded pretext for my limp, no one observing that I limped with the wrong knee. But the other knee was not a wound to heal by first intention, especially under its peculiar dressing, and finally had to be revealed. The result was a surgical dressing and my foot held up in a chair for three weeks, during which time I read the “Arabian Nights” from end to end. As the first dressing was finished, I heard the surgeon say to my father: “that was a hard case, Captain, but she stood it like a soldier.” But when I saw how genuinely they all pitied, and how tenderly they nursed me, even walking lightly about the house not to jar my swollen and fevered limbs, in spite of my disobedience and detestable deception (and persevered in at that), my Sabbath breaking and unbecoming conduct, and all the trouble I had caused, conscience revived, and my mental suffering far exceeded my physical. The Arabian Nights were none too powerful a soporific to hold me in reasonable bounds. I despised myself and failed to sleep or eat. My mother, perceiving my remorseful condition, came to the rescue, telling me soothingly, that she did not think it the worst thing that could have been done, that other little girls had probably done as badly, and strengthened her conclusions by telling me how she once persisted in riding a high mettled unbroken horse in opposition to her father’s commands, and was thrown. My supposition is that she had been a worthy mother of her equestrian son. The lesson was not lost on any of the group. It is very certain that none of us, boys or girls, indulged in further smart tricks. Twenty-five years later, when on a visit to the old home, long left, I saw my father, then a grey-haired grandsire, out on the same little pond, fitting the skates carefully to the feet of his little twin granddaughters, holding them up to make their first start in safety, I remembered my wounded knees, and blessed the great Father that progress and change were among the possibilities of His people. I never learned to skate. When it became fashionable I had neither time nor opportunity. Along these lines I recall another disappointment, which, though not vital, was still indicative of the times. During the following winter a dancing school was opened in the hall of the one hotel on Oxford Plain, some three miles from us. It was taught by a personal friend of my father, a polished gentleman, resident of a neighboring town, and teacher of English schools. By some chance I got a glimpse of the dancing school at the opening, and was seized with a most intense desire to go and learn to dance. With my peculiar characteristics it was necessary for me to want a thing very much before mentioning it; but this overcame me, especially as the cordial teacher took tea with us one evening before going to his school, and spoke very interestingly of his classes. I even went so far as to beg permission to go. The dance was in my very feet. The violin haunted me. “Ladies change” and “all hands round” sounded in my ears and woke me from my sleep at night. The matter was taken up in family council. I was thought to be very young to be allowed to go to a dancing school in a hotel. Dancing at that time was at a very low ebb in good New England society, and besides, there was an active revival taking place in both of the orthodox churches (or rather one a church and the other a society without a church), and it might not be a wise, nor even a courteous, thing to allow. Not that our family, with its well known liberal proclivities, could have the slightest objection on that score; still, like St. Paul, if meat were harmful to their brethren they would not eat it, and thus it was decided that I could not go. The decision was perfectly conscientious, kindness itself, and probably wise; but I have wondered if they could have known (as they never did) how severe the disappointment was, the tears it cost me in my little bed in the dark, the music and the master’s voice still sounding in my ears, if this knowledge would have weighed in the decision. I have listened to a great deal of music since then, interspersed with very positive orders, and which generally called for “all hands round” but the dulcet notes of the violin and the “ladies change” were missing. Neither did I ever learn to dance. From the peculiar gifts that were wont to be made me in those days, I am led to infer that my peculiarities in the direction of the dumb animal part of creation, were decidedly noticeable. On one occasion an English gentleman, a friend of the family, and, like my father, a promoter of fine stock, had been paying us a visit, and upon returning to his home, near Boston, sent to me a beautifully soft, wool-wadded basket containing two and a half dozens of fine, large duck’s eggs. It was not difficult to find among the numerous feathered inhabitants of the barns, three domestically inclined, motherly hens, willing to take charge of the big tinted eggs, albeit not their own, giving to them the strictest attention. The result was, that within four weeks, the shallow end of the little pond was covered with tiny balls of yellow down floating calmly and majestically on the water—darting rapidly this way and that, for every fly or bug so unfortunate as to appear, while the shore presented the scene of three of the most distracted mothers that imagination can picture. There was nothing majestic nor calm in their motions, and the tones which called the recreant broods were far from soothing; but like the mothers of other wayward, unnatural offspring, the lesson of submission was theirs to learn; and through resignation at length came peace. In the course of two or three years my flock of ducks became so numerous as to attract the attention of the wild ducks, passing over from the northern lakes to the southern bays, and it was no uncommon thing for an entire flock, wearied with a long journey, to alight for a few days’ rest. My tame ducks learned athletics from these native divers and dippers, and the scene became at times not only interesting, but inspiring and instructive. It is very evident to me, as I remember it, that my aspirations were by no means satisfied with an interest in these small specimens, such as ducks, hens, turkeys, geese, dogs, cats, etc., of which I had no lack. This not including canaries, of which I received from time to time a number as gifts; but I had no pleasure in them, and although doubtless the most inhuman thing that could have been done, I invariably opened the cage door and let them out. But all that farm land, the three great barns and accompanying yards, called for cattle. A small herd of twenty-five fine milch cows came faithfully home each day with the lowering of the sun, for the milking and extra supper which they knew awaited them. With the customary greed of childhood I had laid claim to three or four of the handsomest and tamest of them, and believing myself to be their real owner, I went faithfully every evening to the yards to receive and look after them. My little milk pail went as well, and I became proficient in an art never forgotten. One afternoon, on going to the barn as usual, I found no cows there; all had been driven somewhere else. As I stood in the corner of the great yard alone, I saw three or four men—the farm hands—with one stranger among them wearing a long, loose shirt or gown. They were all trying to get a large red ox onto the barn floor, to which he went very reluctantly. At length they succeeded. One of the men carried an axe, and stepping a little to the side and back, raised it high in the air and brought it down with a terrible blow. The ox fell, I fell too; and the next I knew I was in the house on a bed, and all the family about me, with the traditional camphor bottle, bathing my head to my great discomfort. As I regained consciousness they asked me what made me fall? I said “some one struck me.” “Oh, no,” they said, “no one struck you,” but I was not to be convinced and proceeded to argue the case with an impatient putting away of the hurting hands, “then what makes my head so sore?” Happy ignorance! I had not then learned the mystery of nerves. I have, however, a very clear recollection of the indignation of my father (my mother had already expressed herself on the subject), on his return from town and hearing what had taken place. The hired men were lined up and arraigned for “cruel carelessness.” They had “the consideration to keep the cattle away,” he said, “but allowed that little girl to stand in full view.” Of course, each protested he had not seen me. I was altogether too friendly with the farm hands to hear them blamed, especially on my account, and came promptly to their side, assuring my father that they had not seen me, and that it was “no matter,” I was “all well now.” But, singularly, I lost all desire for meat, if I had ever had it—and all through life to the present, have only eaten it when I must for the sake of appearance, or as circumstances seemed to make it the more proper thing to do. The bountiful ground has always yielded enough for all my needs and wants. I had been eleven years old the Christmas before. Great changes had taken place during the two or three preceding years. My energetic brothers had outgrown farming, sold their two farms on the hill, and come down and bought of my father all his water power on the French River, as well as all obtainable timber land in the vicinity. The staunch old up-and-down saw still stood in its majesty for the handling of the forest giants too massive for a lesser power, but it was surrounded by a cordon of belted “circulars,” whirling with a speed that quite obscured their motion, screaming, screeching and throwing out the product of their work in all directions; shingles, laths, thin boards, bolters and slitters. New dams had been thrown across the shifty, flighty stream, to be swept away in the torrents of the spring freshets and floating ice, but replaced at once with an obstinate manliness and enterprise that scarcely admitted of an interruption in the work. In a new building along the side of the dam, the great burr-stones of that date ground out the wholesome grain of all the surrounding country, and where I had first seen it under the control of the one lone sawyer, now fifty of the strongest working men that could be procured, and great four-horse teams covered the once quiet mill-yard. The entire line of factories above had caught the inspiration, and the French River villages of North Oxford were models of growth and activity. One sister had married and settled in her home near by, and a wife had come into my eldest brother’s home. Mrs. Larned, the widow to whose assistance my father had gone in her early desolation, had found her children now so well grown as to make it advisable to remove to one of the factory villages, where she became a popular boarding house keeper, and her children operatives in the mill. Thus, I was again left to myself. The schools were not the best, but all that could be done for me, in or out of them, was done. I had been especially well taught to sew and liked it, but knitting was beyond me. I could not be held to it, and it was given up. Through the confirmed invalidism of my elder sister, Dorothea, I lost her beautiful guidance, but the watchful care of my younger sister, now Mrs. Vassall, was truly pathetic. She never lost sight of my welfare, and her fine literary taste was a constant inspiration. While thus in the midst of my various pursuits and vocations, an accidental turn in my wheel of fortune changed my entire course (for a time at least) and how much bearing, if any, it may have had on the future, I have never been able to determine. I have spoken of the younger of my two brothers, of the firm of S. & D. Barton, as a fine horseman. He was more than that. In these days he would have been an athlete. The two men were but two years apart in age, of fine disposition and excellent physical strength, integrity and courage; of fine disposition and equable temper; yet neither of them men with whom an opponent would carelessly or tauntingly covet an encounter. The younger, David, from his physical activity and daring, was always selected for any feat of danger to be performed. These were days when even buildings were “raised by hand.” All the neighborhood was expected to participate in a “raising.” Upon one occasion, an uncommonly large barn, with what was then still more uncommon, a cellar beneath, was to be raised. The rafters must be affixed to the ridgepole, and David Barton was assigned to this duty. While in its performance, a timber on which he was standing, having been weakened by an unobserved knot, suddenly gave way, and he fell directly to the first floor, striking on his feet on another timber near the bottom of the cellar. Without falling he leaped to the ground, and after a few breathless minutes declared himself unhurt, but was not permitted to return aloft. It was spoken of as a “remarkable adventure,” “a wonderful escape,” etc., and for a few days all went well, with the exception of a slight and quite unaccustomed headache, which continued to increase as the July weather progressed. At length he showed symptoms of fever; the family physician was called, and here commenced a system of medical treatment quite unknown to our physicians of the present day, other than as results of historical research and milestones of scientific advancement. He was pronounced in a “settled fever,” which must not be “broken up,” and could only be held in check by reducing the strength of the patient. He had “too much blood,” was “too vigorous,” “just the patient for a fever to ‘go hard with,’” it was said. Accordingly, the blood was taken from time to time, as long as it seemed safe to do so. The terrible pain in the head continued and blisters were applied to all possible places, in the hope of withdrawing the pain. Sleepless, restless, in agony both physical and mental, his case grew desperate. He had been my ideal from earliest memory. I was distressed beyond measure at his condition. I had been his little protégée, his companion, and in his nervous wretchedness he clung to me. Thus, from the first days and nights of illness, I remained near his side. The fever ran on and over all the traditional turning points, seven, fourteen, twenty-one days. I could not be taken away from him except by compulsion, and he was unhappy until my return. I learned to take all directions for his medicines from his physician (who had eminent counsel) and to administer them like a genuine nurse. My little hands became schooled to the handling of the great, loathsome, crawling leeches which were at first so many snakes to me, and no fingers could so painlessly dress the angry blisters; and thus it came about, that I was the accepted and acknowledged nurse of a man almost too ill to recover. Finally, as the summer passed, the fever gave way, and for a wonder the patient did not. No physician will doubt that I had given him poison enough to have killed him many times over, if suitably administered with that view. He will also understand the condition in which the patient was left. They had certainly succeeded in reducing his strength. Late in the autumn he stood on his feet for the first time since July. Still sleepless, nervous, cold, dyspeptic—a mere wreck of his former self. None were so disturbed over his condition as his kind-hearted, and for those days, skillful physicians, who had exhausted their knowledge and poured out their sympathy and care like water, on the patient who, for his manliness and bravery, they had come to respect, and for his suffering learned to love with a parent’s tenderness. It now became a matter of time. Councils of physicians for twenty miles around sat in judgment on the case. They could only recommend; and more blisters, setons and various methods of external irritation for the withdrawal of internal pain followed, from month to month and season to season. All these were my preferred care. I realize now how carefully and apprehensively the whole family watched the little nurse, but I had no idea of it then. I thought my position the most natural thing in the world; I almost forgot that there was an outside to the house. This state of things continued with little change—a trifling gain of strength in my patient at times—for two years, when, entirely unexpected, the most tabooed and little known of all medical treatments, restored him to health. It is to be remembered at that date there was no homeopathy, no hydropathy, no sanitariums, no Christian Science, nothing but the regular school of allopathic medicine. Medical practitioners, baffled by lack of science, surrounded by ignorance on all such subjects and more or less of superstition, struggled manfully on toward the blessed light of the scientific knowledge of to-day, which they have so richly attained. It was not to be wondered at that the slightest departure from the beaten track, under these conditions, was held as unpardonable and punishable quackery; and that the first “ism” that broke through the defense fought the fight of a forlorn hope. There are young physicians of good historical knowledge to-day, who have never learned that “Thompsonianism” was that “ism”; that Dr.
, Luke?" "Sure I do. 'The Mornin' News-Press' for week-days, 'The P'lice Gazette' when I come here to get shaved Saddy nights, and the Bible for Sundays. That's readin' enough for any man." "Did you ever read 'Robinson Crusoe'?" "Nope, but I heard him." "Heard him? Heard who?" "Crusoe," said Luke, snapping his ready-tied tie into place. "Heard him? You couldn't have heard him." "I couldn't, hey? Well, I did." "Where?" demanded Mr. Pottle. "Singin' on a phonograph," said Luke. Mr. Pottle said nothing; Luke was a regular customer, and in successful modern business the customer is always right. However, Mr. Pottle seized a strop and by his vigorous stroppings silently expressed his disgust at a man who hadn't heard of "Robinson Crusoe," for Robinson was one of Mr. Pottle's deities. When Luke reached the door, he turned. "Say, Pottle," he said, "if you're so nutty about these here South Sea Islands, why don't you go there?" Mr. Pottle ceased his stropping. "I am going," he said. Luke gave a dubious hoot and vanished. He did not realize that he had heard Mr. Pottle make the big decision of his life. §2 That night Mr. Pottle finished the book, and dreamed, as he had dreamed on many a night since the lure of the South Seas first cast a spell on him, that in a distant, sun-loved isle, bright with greens and purples, he reclined beneath the _mana-mana-hine_ (or umbrella fern) on his own _paepae_ (or platform), a scarlet _pareu_ (or breech-clout) about his middle, a yellow _hibiscus_ flower in his hair, while the _kukus_ (or small green turtle-doves) cooed in the branches of the _pevatvii_ (or banana-tree), and _Bunnidori_ (that is, she, with the Lips of Love), a tawny maid of wondrous beauty, played softly to him on the ukulele. The tantalizing fragrance of a bowl of _popoi_ (or pudding) mingled in his nostrils with the more delicate perfume of the golden blossoms of the _puu-epu_ (or mulberry-tree). A sound in the jungle, a deep _boom! boom! boom!_ roused him from this reverie. "What is it, O Bunnidori?" he asked. "'Tis a feast, O my Pottle, Lord of the Menikes (that is, white men)," lisped his companion. "Upon what do the men in the jungle feast, O plump and pleasing daughter of delight?" inquired Mr. Pottle, who was up on Polynesian etiquette. She lowered her already low voice still lower. "Upon the long pig that speaks," she whispered. A delicious shudder ran down the spine of the sleeping Mr. Pottle, for from his reading he knew that "the long pig that speaks" means--man! For Mr. Pottle had one big ambition, one great suppressed desire. It was the dearest wish of his thirty-six years of life to meet a cannibal, a real cannibal, face to face, eye to eye. Next day he sold his barber's shop. Two months and seventeen days later he was unpacking his trunk in the tiny settlement of Vait-hua, in the Marquesas Islands, in the heart of the South Seas. The air was balmy, the sea deep purple, the nodding palms and giant ferns of the greenest green were exactly as advertised; but when the first week or two of enchantment had worn off, Mr. Pottle owned to a certain feeling of disappointment. He tasted _popoi_ and found it rather nasty; the hotel in which he stayed--the only one--was deficient in plumbing, but not in fauna. The natives--he had expected great things of the natives--were remarkably like underdone Pullman porters wrapped in bandana handkerchiefs. They were not exciting, they exhibited no inclination to eat Mr. Pottle or one another, they coveted his pink shirt, and begged for a drink from his bottle of Sweet Lilac Tonic. He mentioned his disappointment at these evidences of civilization to Tiki Tiu, the astute native who kept the general store. Mr. Pottle's mode of conversation was his own invention. From the books he had read he improvised a language. It was simple. He gave English words a barbaric sound, usually by suffixing "um" or "ee," shouted them at the top of his voice into the ear of the person with whom he was conversing, and repeated them in various permutations. He addressed Tiki Tiu with brisk and confident familiarity. "Helloee, Tiki Tiu. Me wantum see can-balls. Can-balls me wantum see. Me see can-balls wantum." The venerable native, who spoke seventeen island dialects and tongues, and dabbled in English, Spanish, and French, appeared to apprehend his meaning; indeed, one might almost have thought he had heard this question before, for he answered promptly: "No more can-balls here. All Baptists." "Where are can-balls? Can-balls where are? Where can-balls are?" demanded Mr. Pottle. Tiki Tiu closed his eyes and let blue smoke filter through his nostrils. Finally he said: "Isle of O-pip-ee." "Isle of O-pip-ee?" Mr. Pottle grew excited. "Where is? Is where?" "Two hundred miles south," answered Tiki Tiu. Mr. Pottle's eyes sparkled. He was on the trail. "How go there? Go there how? There go how?" he asked. Tiki Tiu considered. Then he said: "I take. Nice li'l' schooner." "How much?" asked Mr. Pottle. "Much how?" Tiki Tiu considered again. "Ninety-three dol's," he said. "Goodum!" cried Mr. Pottle, and counted the proceeds of 186 hair-cuts into the hand of Tiki Tiu. "You take me to-mollow? To-mollow you take me? Me you take to-mollow? To-mollow? To-mollow? To-mollow?" asked Mr. Pottle. "Yes," promised Tiki Tiu; "to-mollow." Mr. Pottle stayed up all night packing; from time to time he referred to much-thumbed copies of "Robinson Crusoe" and "Green Isles, Brown Man-Eaters, and a White Man." Tiki Tiu's nice li'l' schooner deposited Mr. Pottle and his impedimenta on the small, remote Isle of O-pip-ee; Tiki Tiu agreed to return for him in a month. "This is something like it," exclaimed Mr. Pottle as he unpacked his camera, his ukulele, his razors, his canned soup, his heating outfit, and his bathing-suit. Only the wild parrakeets heard him; save for their calls, an ominous silence hung over the thick foliage of O-pip-ee. There was not the ghost of a sign of human habitation. Mr. Pottle, vaguely apprehensive of sharks, pitched his pup-tent far up on the beach; to-morrow would be time enough to look for cannibals. He lay smoking and thinking. He was happy. The realization of a life's ambition lay, so to speak, just around the corner. To-morrow he could turn that corner--if he wished. He squirmed as something small nibbled at his hip-bone, and he wondered why writers of books on the South Seas make such scant mention of the insects. Surely they must have noticed the little creatures, which had, he discovered, a way of making their presence felt. He wondered, too, now that he came to think of it, if he hadn't been a little rash in coming alone to a cannibal-infested isle with no weapons of defense but a shot-gun, picked up at a bargain at the last minute, and his case of razors. True, in all the books by explorers he had read, the explorer never once had actually been eaten; he always lived to write the book. But what about the explorers who had not written books? What had happened to them? He flipped a centipede off his ankle, and wondered if he hadn't been just a little too impulsive to sell his profitable barber-shop, to come many thousand miles over strange waters, to maroon himself on the lonely Isle of O-pip-ee. At Vait-hua he had heard that cannibals do not fancy white men for culinary purposes. He gave a little start as he looked down at his own bare legs and saw that the tropic sun had already tinted them a coffee hue. Mr. Pottle did not sleep well that night; strange sounds made his eyes fly open. Once it was a curious scuttling along the beach. Peeping out from his pup-tent, he saw half a dozen _tupa_ (or giant tree-climbing crabs) on a nocturnal raid on a cocoanut-grove. Later he heard the big nuts come crashing down. The day shift of insects had quit, and the night shift, fresh and hungry, came to work; inquisitive vampire bats butted their soft heads against his tent. At dawn he set about finding a permanent abode. He followed a small fresh-water stream two hundred yards inland, and came to a coral cave by a pool, a ready-made home, cool and, more important, well concealed. He spent the day settling down, chasing out the bats, putting up mosquito-netting, tidying up. He dined well off cocoanut milk and canned sardines, and was so tired that he fell asleep before he could change his bathing-suit for pajamas. He slept fairly well, albeit he dreamed that two cannibal kings were disputing over his prostrate form whether he would be better as a ragout or stuffed with chestnuts. Waking, he decided to lie low and wait for the savages to show themselves, for he knew from Tiki Tiu that the Isle of O-pip-ee was not more than seven miles long and three or four miles wide; sooner or later they must pass near him. He figured that there was logic in this plan, for no cannibal had seen him land; therefore he knew that the cannibals were on the isle, but they did not know that he was. The advantage was his. §3 For days he remained secluded, subsisting on canned foods, cocoanuts, _mei_ (or breadfruit), and an occasional boiled baby _feke_ (or young devil-fish), a nest of which Mr. Pottle found on one furtive moonlight sally to the beach. Emboldened by this sally and by the silence of the woods, Mr. Pottle made other expeditions away from his cave; on one he penetrated fully five hundred yards into the jungle. He was prowling, like a Cooper Indian, among the _faufee_ (or lacebark-trees) when he heard a sound that sent him scurrying and quaking back to his lair. It was a faint sound that the breezes bore to him, so faint that he could not be sure; but it sounded like some far-off barbaric instrument mingling its dim notes with those of a human voice raised in a weird, primeval chant. But the savages did not show themselves, and finding no cannibals by night, Mr. Pottle grew still bolder; he ventured on short explorations by day. He examined minutely his own cove, and then one morning crept over a low ledge and into the next cove. He made his way cautiously along the smooth, white beach. The morning was still, calm, beautiful. Its peace all but drove thoughts of cannibals from his mind. He came to a strip of land running into the sea; another cove lay beyond. Mr. Pottle was an impulsive man; he pushed through the _keoho_ (or thorn-bushes); his foot slipped; he rolled down a declivity and into the next cove. He did not stay there; he did not even tarry. What he saw sent him dashing through the thorn-bushes and along the white sand like a hundred-yard sprinter. In the sand of the cove were many imprints of naked human feet. A less stout-hearted man than Mr. Pottle would never have come out of his cave again; but he had come eight thousand miles to see a cannibal. An over-mastering desire had spurred him on; he would not give up now. Of such stuff are Ohio barbers made. §4 A few days later, at twilight, he issued forth from his cave again. Around his loins was a scarlet _pareu_; he had discarded his bathing-suit as too civilized. In his long, black hair was a yellow _hibiscus_ flower. Like a burglar, he crept along the beach to the bushy promontory that hid the cove where the foot-prints were, he wiggled through the bush, he slid down to the third beach, and crouched behind a large rock. The beach seemed deserted; the muttering of the ocean was the only sound Mr. Pottle heard. Another rock, a dozen feet away, seemed to offer better concealment, and he stepped out toward it, and then stopped short. Mr. Pottle stood face to face with a naked, brown savage. Mr. Pottle's feet refused to take him away; a paralysis such as one has in nightmares rooted him to the spot. His returning faculties took in these facts: first, the savage was unarmed; second, Mr. Pottle had forgotten to bring his shot-gun. It was a case of man to man-eater. The savage was large, well-fed, almost fat; his long black hair fringed his head; he did not wear a particularly bloodthirsty expression; indeed, he appeared startled and considerably alarmed. Reason told Mr. Pottle that friendliness was the best policy. Instinctively, he recalled the literature of his youth, and how Buffalo Bill had acted in a like circumstance. He raised his right hand solemnly in the air and ejaculated, "How!" The savage raised his right hand solemnly in the air, and in the same tone also ejaculated, "How!" Mr. Pottle had begun famously. He said loudly: "Who you? You who? Who you?" The savage, to Mr. Pottle's surprise, answered after a brief moment: "Me--Lee." Here was luck. The man-eater could talk the Pottle lingo. "Oh," said Mr. Pottle, to show that he understood, "you--Mealy." The savage shook his head. "No," he said; "Me--Lee. Me--Lee." He thumped his barrel-like chest with each word. "Oh, I see," cried Mr. Pottle; "you Mealy-mealy." The savage made a face that among civilized people would have meant that he did not think much of Mr. Pottle's intellect. "Who you?" inquired Mealy-mealy. Mr. Pottle thumped his narrow chest. "Me, Pottle. Pottle!" "Oh, you Pottle-pottle," said the savage, evidently pleased with his own powers of comprehension. Mr. Pottle let it go at that. Why argue with a cannibal? He addressed the savage again. "Mealy-mealy, you eatum long pig? Eatum long pig you? Long pig you eatum?" This question agitated Mealy-mealy. He trembled. Then he nodded his head in the affirmative, a score of rapid nods. Mr. Pottle's voice faltered a little as he asked the next question. "Where you gottum tribe? You gottum tribe where? Tribe you gottum where?" Mealy-mealy considered, scowled, and said: "Gottum velly big tribe not far. Velly fierce. Eatum long pig. Eatum Pottle-pottle." Mr. Pottle thought it would be a good time to go, but he could think of no polite excuse for leaving. An idea occurred to Mealy-mealy. "Where your tribe, Pottle-pottle?" His tribe? Mr. Pottle's eyes fell on his own scarlet _pareu_ and the brownish legs beneath it. Mealy-mealy thought he was a cannibal, too. With all his terror, he had a second or two of unalloyed enjoyment of the thought. Like all barbers, he had played poker. He bluffed. "My tribe velly, velly, velly, velly, velly, velly big," he cried. "Where is?" asked Mealy-mealy, visibly moved by this news. "Velly near," cried Mr. Pottle; "hungry for long pig; for long pig hungry----" There was suddenly a brown blur on the landscape. With the agility of an ape, the huge savage had turned, darted down the beach, plunged into the bush, and disappeared. "He's gone to get his tribe," thought Mr. Pottle, and fled in the opposite direction. When he reached his cave, panting, he tried to fit a cartridge into his shot-gun; he'd die game, anyhow. But rust had ruined the neglected weapon, and he flung it aside and took out his best razor. But no cannibals came. He was scared, but happy. He had seen his cannibal; more, he had talked with him; more still, he had escaped gracing the festal board by a snake's knuckle. He prudently decided to stay in his cave until the sails of Tiki Tiu's schooner hove in sight. §5 But an instinct stronger than fear drove him out into the open: his stock of canned food ran low, and large red ants got into his flour. He needed cocoanuts and breadfruit and baby _fekes_ (or young octopi). He knew that numerous succulent infant _fekes_ lurked in holes in his own cove, and thither he went by night to pull them from their homes. Hitherto he had encountered only small _fekes_, with tender tentacles only a few feet long; but that night Mr. Pottle had the misfortune to plunge his naked arm into the watery nest when the father of the family was at home. He realized his error too late. A clammy tentacle, as long as a fire hose, as strong as the arm of a gorilla, coiled round his arm, and his scream was cut short as the giant devil-fish dragged him below the water. The water was shallow. Mr. Pottle got a foothold, forced his head above water, and began to yell for help and struggle for his life. The chances against a nude Ohio barber of 140 pounds in a wrestling match with an adult octopus are exactly a thousand to one. The giant _feke_ so despised his opponent that he used only two of his eight muscular arms. In their slimy, relentless clutch Mr. Pottle felt his strength going fast. As his favorite authors would have put it, "it began to look bad for Mr. Pottle." The thought that Mr. Pottle thought would be his last on this earth was, "I wouldn't mind being eaten by cannibals, but to be drowned by a trick fish----" Mr. Pottle threshed about in one final, frantic flounder; his strength gave out; he shut his eyes. He heard a shrill cry, a splashing in the water, felt himself clutched about the neck from behind, and dragged away from the _feke_. He opened his eyes and struggled weakly. One tentacle released its grip. Mr. Pottle saw by the tropic moon's light that some large creature was doing battle with the _feke_. It was a man, a large brown man who with a busy ax hacked the gristly limbs from the _feke_ as fast as they wrapped around him. Mr. Pottle staggered to the dry beach; a tentacle was still wound tight round his shoulder, but there was no octopus at the other end of it. The angry noise of the devil-fish--for, when wounded, they snarl like kicked curs--stopped. The victorious brown man strode out of the water to where Mr. Pottle swayed on the moonlit sand. It was Mealy-mealy. "Bad fishum!" said Mealy-mealy, with a grin. "Good manum!" cried Mr. Pottle, heartily. Here was romance, here was adventure, to be snatched from the jaws, so to speak, of death by a cannibal! It was unheard of. But a disquieting thought occurred to Mr. Pottle, and he voiced it. "Mealy-mealy, why you save me? Why save you me? Why you me save?" Mealy-mealy's grin seemed to fade, and in its place came another look that made Mr. Pottle wish he were back in the anaconda grip of the _feke_. "My tribe hungry for long pig," growled Mealy-mealy. He seemed to be trembling with some powerful emotion. Hunger? Mr. Pottle knew where his only chance for escape lay. "My tribe velly, velly, velly hungry, too," he cried. "Velly, velly, velly near." He thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a piercing school-boy whistle. As if in answer to it there came a crashing and floundering in the bushes. His bluff had worked only too well; it must be the fellow man-eaters of Mealy-mealy. Mr. Pottle turned and ran for his life. Fifty yards he sped, and then realized that he did not hear the padding of bare feet on the sand behind him or feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He dared to cast a look over his shoulder. Far down the beach the moonlight showed him a flying brown figure against the silver-white sand. It was Mealy-mealy, and he was going in the opposite direction as fast as ever his legs would take him. Surprise drove fear temporarily from Mr. Pottle's mind as he watched the big cannibal become a blur, then a speck, then nothing. As he watched Mealy-mealy recede, he saw another dark figure emerge from the bush where the noise had been, and move slowly out on the moon-strewn beach. It was a baby wild pig. It sniffed at the ocean, squealed, and trotted back into the bush. As he gnawed his morning cocoanut, Mr. Pottle was still puzzled. He was afraid of Mealy-mealy; that he admitted. But at the same time it was quite clear that Mealy-mealy was afraid of him. He was excited and more than a little gratified. What a book he could write! Should he call it "Cannibal-Bound on O-pip-ee," or, "Cannibals Who have almost Eaten Me"? Tiki Tiu's schooner would be coming for him very soon now,--he'd lost track of the exact time,--and he would be almost reluctant to leave the isle. Almost. Mr. Pottle had another glimpse of a cannibal next day. Toward evening he stole out to pick some supper from a breadfruit-tree not far from his cave, a tree which produced particularly palatable _mei_ (or breadfruit). He drew his _pareu_ tight around him and slipped through the bushes; as he neared the tree he saw another figure approaching it with equal stealth from the opposite direction; the setting sun was reflected from the burnished brown of the savage's shoulders. At the same time Mr. Pottle spied the man, the man spied him. The savage stopped short, wheeled about, and tore back in the direction from which he had come. Mr. Pottle did not get a good look at his face, but he ran uncommonly like Mealy-mealy. §6 Mr. Pottle thought it best not to climb the _mei_-tree that evening; he returned hastily to his cave, and finished up the breakfast cocoanut. Over a pipe he thought. He was pleased, thrilled by his sight of a cannibal; but he was not wholly satisfied. He had thought it would be enough for him to get one fleeting glimpse of an undoubted man-eater in his native state, but it wasn't. Before he left the Isle of O-pip-ee he wanted to see the whole tribe in a wild dance about a bubbling pot. Tiki Tiu's schooner might come on the morrow. He must act. He crept out of the cave and stood in the moonlight, breathing the perfume of the jungle, feeling the cool night air, hearing the mellow notes of the Polynesian nightingale. Adventure beckoned to him. He started in the direction Mealy-mealy had run. At first he progressed on tiptoes, then he sank to all fours, and crawled along slowly, pig-wise. On, on he went; he must have crept more than a mile when a sound stopped him--a sound he had heard before. It was faint, yet it seemed near: it was the sound of some primitive musical instrument blending with the low notes of a tribal chant. It seemed to come from a sheltered hollow not two dozen yards ahead. He crouched down among the ferns and listened. The chant was crooned softly in a deep voice, and to the straining ears of Mr. Pottle it seemed vaguely familiar, like a song heard in dreams. The words came through the thick tangle of jungle weeds: "Eeet slon ay a teep a ari." Mr. Pottle, fascinated, wiggled forward to get a look at the tribe. Like a snake, he made his tortuous approach. The singing continued; he saw a faint glow through the foliage--the campfire. He eased himself to the crest of a little hummock, pushed aside a great fern leaf and looked. Sitting comfortably in a steamer-chair was Mealy-mealy. In his big brown hands was a shiny banjo at which he plucked gently. Near his elbow food with a familiar smell bubbled in an aluminum dish over a trim canned-heat outfit; an empty baked-bean can with a gaudy label lay beside it. From time to time Mealy-mealy glanced idly at a pink periodical popular in American barber-shops. The song he sang to himself burst intelligibly on Mr. Pottle's ears-- "It's a long way to Tipperary." Mealy-mealy stopped; his eye had fallen on the staring eyes of Mr. Pottle. He caught up his ax and was about to swing it when Mr. Pottle stood up, stepped into the circle of light, pointed an accusing finger at Mealy-mealy and said: "Are you a cannibal?" Mealy-mealy's ax and jaw dropped. "What the devil are you?" he sputtered in perfect American. "I'm a barber from Ohio," said Mr. Pottle. Mealy-mealy emitted a sudden whooping roar of laughter. "So am I," he said. Mr. Pottle collapsed limply into the steamer-chair. "What's your name?" he asked in a weak voice. "Bert Lee, head barber at the Schmidt House, Bucyrus, Ohio," said the big man. He slapped his fat, bare chest. "Me--Lee," he said, and laughed till the jungle echoed. "Did you read 'Green Isles, Brown Man-Eaters, and a White Man'?" asked Mr. Pottle, feebly. "Yes." "I'd like to meet the man who wrote it," said Mr. Pottle. III: _Mr. Pottle and Culture_ Out of the bathtub, rubicund and rotund, stepped Mr. Ambrose Pottle. He anointed his hair with sweet spirits of lilac and dusted his anatomy with crushed rosebud talcum. He donned a virgin union suit; a pair of socks, silk where it showed; ultra low shoes; white-flannel trousers, warm from the tailor's goose; a creamy silk shirt; an impeccable blue coat; a gala tie, perfect after five tyings; and then went forth into the spring-scented eventide to pay a call on Mrs. Blossom Gallup. He approached her new-art bungalow as one might a shrine, with diffident steps and hesitant heart, but with delicious tinglings radiating from his spinal cord. Only the ballast of a three-pound box of Choc-O-late Nutties under his arm kept him on earth. He was in love. To be in love for the first time at twenty is passably thrilling; but to be in love for the first time at thirty-six is exquisitely excruciating. Mr. Pottle found Mrs. Gallup in her living room, a basket of undarned stockings on her lap. With a pretty show of confusion and many embarrassed murmurings she thrust them behind the piano, he protesting that this intimate domesticity delighted him. She sank back with a little sigh into a gay-chintzed wicker chair, and the rosy light from a tall piano lamp fell gently on her high-piled golden hair, her surprised blue eyes, and the ripe, generous outlines of her figure. To Mr. Pottle she was a dream of loveliness, a poem, an idyl. He would have given worlds, solar systems to have been able to tell her so. But he couldn't. He couldn't find the words, for, like many another sterling character in the barbers' supply business, he was not eloquent; he did not speak with the fluent ease, the masterful flow that comes, one sees it often said, from twenty-one minutes a day of communion with the great minds of all time. His communings had been largely with boss barbers; with them he was cheery and chatty. But Mrs. Gallup and her intellectual interests were a world removed from things tonsorial; in her presence he was tongue-tied as an oyster. Mr. Pottle's worshiping eye roved from the lady to her library, and his good-hearted face showed tiny furrows of despair; an array of fat crisp books in shiny new bindings stared at him: Twenty-one Minutes' Daily Communion With the Master Minds; Capsule Chats on Poets, Philosophers, Painters, Novelists, Interior Decorators; Culture for the Busy Man, six volumes, half calf; How to Build Up a Background; Talk Tips; YOU, Too, Can Be Interesting; Sixty Square Feet of Self-Culture--and a score more. "Culture"--always that wretched word! "Are you fond of reading, Mr. Pottle?" asked Mrs. Gallup, popping a Choc-O-late Nuttie into her demure mouth with a daintiness almost ethereal. "Love it," he answered promptly. "Who is your favorite poet?" "S-Shakspere," he ventured desperately. "He's mine, too." Mr. Pottle breathed easier. "But," she added, "I think Longfellow is sweet, don't you?" "Very sweet," agreed Mr. Pottle. She smiled at him with a sad, shy confidence. "He did not understand," she said. She nodded her blonde head toward an enlarged picture of the late Mr. Gallup, in the full regalia of Past Grand Master of the Beneficent Order of Beavers. "Didn't he care for--er--literature?" asked Mr. Pottle. "He despised it," she replied. "He was wrapped up in the hay-and-feed business. He began to talk about oats and chicken gravel on our honeymoon." Mr. Pottle made a sympathetic noise. "In our six years of married life," she went on, "he talked of nothing but duck fodder, carload lots, trade discounts, selling points, bran, turnover----" How futile, how inadequate seem mere words in some situations. Mr. Pottle said nothing; timidly he took her hand in his; she did not draw it away. "And he only shaved on Saturday nights," she said. Mr. Pottle's free hand went to his own face, smooth as steel and art could make it. "Blossom," he began huskily, "have you ever thought of marrying again?" "I have," she answered, blushing--his hand on hers tightened--"and I haven't," she finished. "Oh, Blossom----" he began once more. "If I do marry again," she interrupted, "it will be a literary man." "A literary man?" His tone was aghast. "A writing fella?" "Oh, not necessarily a writer," she said. "They usually live in garrets, and I shouldn't like that. I mean a man who has read all sorts of books, and who can talk about all sorts of things." "Blossom"--Mr. Pottle's voice was humble--"I'm not what you might call----" There was a sound of clumping feet on the porch outside. Mrs. Gallup started up. "Oh, that must be him now!" she cried. "Him? Who?" "Why, Mr. Deeley." "Who's he?" queried Mr. Pottle. "Oh, I forgot to tell you! He said he might call to-night. Such a nice man! I met him over in Xenia last week. Such a brilliant conversationalist. I know you'll like each other." She hastened to answer the doorbell; Mr. Pottle sat moodily in his chair, not at all sure he'd like Mr. Deeley. The brilliant conversationalist burst into the room breezily, confidently. He was slightly smaller than a load of hay in his belted suit of ecru pongee; he wore a satisfied air and a pleased mustache. "Meet Mr. Pottle," said Mrs. Gallup. "What name?" asked Mr. Deeley. His voice was high, sweet and loud; his handshake was a knuckle pulverizer. "Pottle," said the owner of that name. "I beg pardon?" said Mr. Deeley. "Pottle," said Mr. Pottle more loudly. "Sorry," said Mr. Deeley affably, "but it sounds just like 'Pottle' to me." "That's what it is," said Mr. Pottle with dignity. Mr. Deeley laughed a loud tittering laugh. "Oh, well," he remarked genially, "you can't help that. We're born with our names, but"--he bestowed a dazzling smile on Mrs. Gallup--"we pick our own teeth." "Oh, Mr. Deeley," she cried, "you do say the most ridiculously witty things!" Mr. Pottle felt a concrete lump forming in his bosom. Mr. Deeley addressed him tolerantly. "What line are you in, Mr. Bottle?" he asked. "Barbers' supplies," admitted Mr. Pottle. "Ah, yes. Barbers' supplies. How interesting," said Mr. Deeley. "Climbing the lather of success, eh?" Mr. Pottle did not join in the merriment. "What line are you in?" he asked. He prayed that Mr. Deeley would say "Shoes," for by a happy inspiration he was prepared to counter with, "Ah, starting at the bottom," and thus split honors with the Xenian. But Mr. Deeley did not say "Shoes." He said "Literature." Mrs. Gallup beamed. "Oh, are you, Mr. Deeley? How perfectly thrilling!" she said rapturously. "I didn't know that." "Oh, yes indeed," said Mr. Deeley. He changed the subject by turning to Mr. Pottle. "By the way, Mr. Poodle, are you interested in Abyssinia?" he inquired. "Why, no--that is, not particularly," confessed Mr. Pottle. He looked toward her who had quickened his pulse, but her eyes were fastened on Mr. Deeley. "I'm surprised to hear you say that," said Mr. Deeley. "A most interesting place, Abyssinia--rather a specialty of mine." He threw one plump leg over the other and leaned back comfortably. "Abyssinia," he went on in his high voice, "is an inland country situated by the Red Sea between 5° and 15° north latitude, and 35° and 42° east longitude. Its area is 351,019 square miles. Its population is 4,501,477. It includes Shoa, Kaffa, Gallaland and Central Somal
ly enough without these accessories. Moreover, I have throughout written _Edward_ for _Eduuard_ or _Eduard_ and _Inglis_ for _Ynglis_ (C). 3. As Skeat has substituted “_th_” for the “thorn” (þ), I have done likewise with the ancient English _g_ (ȝ), the “yok” letter, resolving it into the digraph _yh_. As ultimately, in almost every case, significant of the consonantal _y_, I might have simply replaced it by that letter. But alternative forms, nearly without exception, show the digraph, both in _The Bruce_ and in Wyntoun, giving _yhe_, _yhet_, _yharnit_, _fenyhe_, etc., and in Wyntoun’s extracts _feyhnnyng_, _senyhoury_, _yhystir-day_, _bayhllys_, etc. Even with the original letter the _h_ is added as often as not. Apparently the usage, which had practically disappeared from the southern practice, was in a transitional stage on its way to its full revival in later Scots, where it became fixed, at the hands of the printers, as _z_, and survives in such forms as _Cadzow_, _capercailzie_, etc.[27] In I. 16, however, it has been read as _g_ in _forget_, though _foryhet_ is to be found in _Ratis Raving_, and in XV. 75 it is obviously _z_ in _Fi(t)z-Waryne_. [27] _Cf._ Murray’s _Dialect of the Southern Counties of Scotland_, p. *92; and _New. Eng. Dict._, G. 4. The placing of the capital letters and the punctuation are, of course, modern. Further, the poem in MSS. is not divided into Books, but paragraphs are denoted by the insertion of a large capital; these, as in C, are similarly marked in the text. The division into twenty Books was first made by Pinkerton, and, as the most convenient, has been adopted by Skeat in his editions. From Pinkerton also Skeat adopts the numbering of the lines. Jamieson, however, made a division into fourteen Books with a numbering to suit. Cosmo Innes gave up the Books in favour of Cantos, with a fresh renumbering. To avoid confusion I have adhered to Skeat’s divisions and numbering, which are those of Pinkerton; inconvenient though the duplicate numbers certainly are, a totally new and fourth arrangement would be much more so. To break up and make more accessible the matter, I have also introduced, where possible, the paragraphs of Jamieson distinguished by spaces, some of these, however, being found in C. They are merely for the convenience of the reader. I may, perhaps, draw attention to the critical treatment of _The Bruce_ as an historic document without which we move greatly in the dark. The historical notes of the early editors are few and superficial. Skeat does not profess to deal with the work strictly on this line (_note_, vol. ii., p. 224), though he does not fail to pass unnecessary censure at several places. But some such examination as I have tried to make seems necessary in the interests of Scottish historiography. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE v-xii 1. MSS. and Editions v 2. The Scribes viii 3. The Present Edition x INTRODUCTION xv-xxiii 1. _The Bruce_ as Romance xv 2. John Barbour xvi 3. Historic value of _The Bruce_ xx TEXT OF “THE BRUCE.” BOOKS I-XX. 1-377 NOTES TO TEXT 378 APPENDIX A.--The Site of the Battle of Bannockburn 496 „ B.--Bruce’s Speech at Bannockburn 497 „ C.--The Numbers at Bannockburn 498 „ D.--The Throwing of the Heart 502 „ E.--The _Alexander_ and _The Bruce_ 505 „ F.--Mr. Brown’s “Sources” for _The Bruce_ 506 „ G.--Language and Orthography 511 „ H.--Grammar 513 GLOSSARY 519 LIST OF PRINCIPAL WORKS 545 INTRODUCTION 1. “THE BRUCE” AS ROMANCE. The literary relationships of _The Bruce_ may be briefly indicated. It stands at the beginning of Scottish literature; of its predecessors and contemporaries we have but the names, or possible versions whose place of origin is in dispute. In form and technique, including the octosyllabic couplet, it plainly depends on the French metrical romance, the most fruitful branch of a literature which, for quite two centuries, had been the mother of literatures in Western Europe. The opening line of _The Bruce_ characterizes at once the poem itself, and what was best and most abundant in the literature of the Middle Ages. Barbour, too, it is never overlooked, announces his work as a “romance,” but as such, we gather from what precedes, only in a technical sense; and no mediæval writer would consider this popular method of treatment incompatible with strict accuracy and reality of subject: that is a modern refinement. Barbour certainly did not, nor did those who followed and used him; his selection of the model is simply the expression of his desire to do his work in “gud manere.” He anticipated Macaulay’s ambition in that his history was to differ from the most attractive literary matter only in being true. There were already in French many examples of contemporary history presented in this way as a succession of incidents on the lines of personal memoirs, though history had in the end succeeded in widening its outlook, and consequently found more fitting expression in prose. But that was of Barbour’s own age, and indeed Froissart had made his first essay, as an historian, in verse, which later he recast and continued in the form we know. All the necessities of Barbour’s case, however, led him the other way--the despised condition of the prose vernacular as a literary medium, from which, indeed, it never fully emerged; the character of his audience, which would be either learned or aristocratic; and the nature and associations of his subject, for which only the literature of romance could furnish a parallel or supply the appropriate setting. The literary qualities of _The Bruce_ are, therefore, those of its model; it is a clear, vivid, easy-flowing narrative, and if it is also, as romances tended to be, loose in construction and discursive, it is never tedious, for it deals with real persons and events of real interest, depicted with an admiring fidelity. 2. JOHN BARBOUR. The year of John Barbour’s birth we do not know, an item which is lacking also for Chaucer: 1320 is a good round guess. Nor have we any knowledge of his family. If, however, the _St. Ninian_ in the _Legends of the Saints_ be of Barbour, a claim for which there is much to be said,[28] it may give us a clue. The adventure of Jak. Trumpoure, there told, connects with the fact that Jaq. (James) Trampour had land in Aberdeen bordering on that of an Andrew Barbour.[29] It may be conjectured that the latter was John Barbour’s father, or other near relative, since the vivid personal details of the affair in the _St. Ninian_ must have come from Trumpour himself, and the fact that he was a neighbour of the Barbours would explain how. The name Barbour (_Barbitonsoris_) is obviously plebeian. Some ancestor followed the business of barber, as some one of Chaucer’s possibly did that of “hose-making.” The established spelling, Barbour, shows a French termination which takes also the form Barbier, whence Mr. Henderson concludes that John Barbour “was of Norman origin.”[30] But the spelling is merely an accident of transcription; the oldest form is Barber(e) (1357, 1365),[31] which the scribe of the Edinburgh MS. also uses, and which Wyntoun rhymes with _here_ and _matere_; in a few cases it is Barbar. As we might expect, the name was common enough in the English-speaking districts of Scotland. [28] See Neilson in _Scottish Antiquary_, vol. xi., p. 102 ff., and Buss, _ex adverso_, in _Anglia_, Band ix., p. 495. [29] Jamieson’s _Memoir_, p. iv. [30] _Scottish Vernacular Literature_, p. 41. [31] For this reason Buss always gives the name as Barbere. All our information about John Barbour, except the little to be gleaned from the complimentary references of later authors, is drawn from official sources,[32] and is thus, of course, perfectly precise, but meagre and uncharacteristic. We learn something of what Barbour did and got, but not what sort of man he was, or what he was like. By 1357, at the latest, he is Archdeacon of Aberdeen, the most important official of the diocese after the bishop, having as his prebend the parish of Rayne, in Garioch; and in the same year (August 13) he has a safe-conduct to go with three scholars, for purposes of study, to Oxford, where he may have seen John Wycliffe. There was, of course, no University in Scotland as yet, and scholars desirous of academic advantages had to seek them at least across the Border, a patronage which Edward III., in his own interests, readily encouraged. Seven years later he is again in England on a similar mission with four horsemen,[33] and on October 16 of the year following he goes to St. Denis, near Paris, this time with six companions on horseback; in 1368-69 he once more visits France “with two servants (_vallettis_) and two horses.” The University of Paris had the highest reputation for the study of philosophy and canon law, and Barbour, whose duty it was to administer the jurisdiction of his bishop, would necessarily be something of a lawyer, though his allusion to the clerkly “disputations” in this field does not suggest much personal interest in legal refinements. [32] These have been brought together by Skeat in his first volume, pp. xv-xxv. [33] Skeat here takes _equitibus_ to be “knights,” but this is not a military business. They were, we may judge, the attendants proper to his rank. His next appearance is in a different though related capacity. In 1372 he is clerk of the audit of the King’s household, that of Robert II., who had come to the throne in the previous year as the first of the Stewart Kings. The year after he is also an auditor of exchequer. The Stewarts were good friends to Barbour, and we see the result in his kindly, almost affectionate, references to the family in his poem. He wrote up their genealogy, but that piece of work is lost. After a long interval he reappears as an auditor of exchequer in 1382, 1383, 1384. For some part, at least, of this interval he was engaged upon _The Bruce_, and its completion in the course of 1376[34] suggestively approximates to a grant of £10, by the King’s order, from the customs of Aberdeen, first recorded in the accounts of March 14, 1377. So also does a pension of twenty shillings sterling from certain revenues of the same city, granted on August 29, 1378, to himself and his assignees for ever.[35] Accordingly, two years later Barbour assigned his pension, on his death, to the cathedral church of Aberdeen, as payment for a yearly mass for his own soul and for the souls of his relatives and all the faithful dead. The practice of these payments can be traced for a considerable time afterwards, but the financial readjustments of the Reformation sent Barbour’s legacy elsewhere. [34] See on Bk. XIII. 702. [35] The account of 1429 is the first to state expressly that this perpetual pension was “for the composition of the book of the deeds of the erstwhile King Robert the Bruce” (_Excheq. Rolls_, iv., p. 520). But the royal bounty had not dried up. In 1386 the poet had gifts of £10 and £6 13s. 4d., no doubt in recognition of further literary labours. And on December 5, 1388, he had a fresh pension of £10 for life “for faithful service,” to be paid in equal portions at Pentecost and Martinmas. This he enjoyed for only a few years. On April 25, 1396, the first payment of twenty shillings is made to the Dean and Chapter of Aberdeen, so that Barbour must have been dead before April 5, 1395, when the accounts for the year began. As his “anniversary” fell on March 13, that date in 1395 was, in all probability, the day of his death. Thus born under the great Bruce, he had lived through the reigns of David II. and Robert II., and five years of Robert III. Some stray notices of Barbour in other connections add nothing of importance. One, however, lets us know that he was responsible for the loss of a volume on law from the library of his cathedral. We have really learned nothing as to the personality of the poet. That he was a keen student and a great reader as well as a trustworthy official, and stood high in the royal favour, may be inferred. The respectful and admiring references of Wyntoun and Bower attest his high reputation as a writer and authority on history. But _The Bruce_ of itself would suggest neither the cleric nor the accountant. His pious reflections would be commonplaces even for a lay writer, and his handling of figures is not in any way distinctive. Even of Scotland in the background we get but casual, fleeting glimpses. Barbour is occupied entirely with his heroes and their performances. It is these he undertakes to celebrate, not, primarily, even the great cause which called them forth; and personal loyalty is his master virtue.[36] That he so conceived and developed his subject, his hurried passage from incident to incident, his grim, practical humour, his impatience of inaction or commonplace achievement, his actively descriptive vocabulary, and his vivid realization of the details of movement and conflict--all contribute to the impression of a man of lively, energetic temperament, with a delight in action and the concrete, and so, as his time and circumstances would make him, an amateur and idealist of chivalry. [36] “His theme was Freedom,” writes Mr. Cosmo Innes. Barbour gives out his “theme” in the first thirty-six lines, and never once mentions it. Besides _The Bruce_, Wyntoun credits Barbour with _The Stewartis Oryginalle_, a metrical genealogy starting from “Sere Dardane, lord de Frygya”(!), which has not survived.[37] Skeat has also suggested, basing on certain references by Wyntoun, that Barbour wrote a _Brut_ on the mythical colonization of Britain by Brutus, but the inference is disputed by Mr. Brown,[38] and Wyntoun’s language is too vague for a definite opinion. On better grounds there has been attributed to him a _Trojan War_ or _Troy Book_, portions of which have been used to fill up gaps in a MS. of Lydgate’s _Siege_ with the rubric, “Here endis Barbour and begynnis the monk,” and again conversely. An independent MS. gives a larger number of lines in continuation. These fragments have been subjected to close linguistic and metrical criticism by P. Buss in _Anglia_, ix., pp. 493-514, and by E. Koeppel in _Englische Studien_, x., pp. 373-382, and their reasoning on differences of verbal and grammatical usages has been summarized by Skeat,[39] who concurs with their conclusion against Barbour’s authorship. But there are other elements of evidence, and the sceptical discussion of Medea’s alleged astronomical powers with the affirmation, Bot na gude Cristene mane her-to Sulde gif credence--that I defend,[40] is significantly similar to the argumentation on astrology in _The Bruce_, Bk. IV. 706 to end.[41] Faced with the plain statement of the fifteenth-century scribe, Skeat can only suggest that the poem was not by our Barbour, but by another person of the same name--surely the extremity of destructive literary criticism. And every argument of the German scholars against the _Troy_ fragments would clinch the case for Barbour’s claims on the _Alexander_, with which I deal elsewhere. The garrulous and dreary _Legends of the Saints_ probably contain, at least, contributions by Barbour; even Buss admits peculiar features in the _St. Ninian_,[42] and _St. Machar_ is a purely Aberdeen worthy, in whom the poet, too, professes a special interest; these may well have come from Barbour’s pen as the uncongenial but meritorious labour of his old age. Such, at any rate, was the normal progress of a poetic clerk, from translation to original work, to decline at the close upon versions of saintly biographies. [37] The editor of _The Exchequer Rolls_, vol. ii. p. cv., says: “Bower accuses Barbour of misrepresenting the origin of the Stewarts.” That is not so. According to the summary in Bower, Barbour had it that they came from Wales, and in fact the family was settled in Shropshire on the Welsh March. It had its origin, he said, from one who was called “Le Fleanc de Waran,” who may equate with Alan FitzFlaald, who, however, apparently did not marry a daughter of Warine, the sheriff of that county (Round, _Studies in the Peerage_, p. 116). He affirms, rightly enough, that the first of them in Scotland was Walter, in the days of King William (twelfth century). Where he goes wrong genealogically, according to Bower, is in saying that Walter’s son, Alan, was in the First Crusade, which was obviously impossible; but Alan FitzAlan, uncle of Alan FitzFlaald, was in that expedition. Barbour was dealing with remote personages through family tradition, and whatever his errors as represented by Bower, he does not appear, as is too lightly assumed, to have been the source of the myths of later historians in this connection. Bower’s language does not admit of a Banquo. See _Cupar and Perth MSS._, in _Scotichronicon_, Lib. IX., chap. xlviii. [38] _The Wallace and The Bruce_, pp. 88-90. [39] Preface I., xlix-lii. [40] Edit. Horstmann, ii., p. 226. [41] See further, Neilson’s _John Barbour_, p. 2. [42] _Anglia_, as cited. 3. HISTORIC VALUE OF “THE BRUCE.” A comparison of judgments on the value of _The Bruce_ as a contribution to history plunges us into a thicket of contradictions. Green’s verdict that it is “historically worthless”[43] is but a petulant aside. It repeats itself, however, in the pronouncement of Mr. Brown that “in no true sense is it an historical document,”[44] but Mr. Brown selects, as illustrative of this, examples, such as the Simon Fraser identification,[45] and the Stanhope Park inference,[46] which recoil to the confusion of the critic.[47] Mr. Cosmo Innes has sought to discriminate, unfortunately upon wrong lines. Of Barbour as historian, he writes: “Satisfied to have real persons and events, and an outline of history for his guide, and to preserve the true character of things, he did not trouble himself about accuracy of detail.”[48] As it happens, it is just in his outline--that is, in his dates and succession of events--that Barbour may be adjudged most careless; his details contain the most remarkable examples of his accuracy. The latest expression of opinion on this head is not even self-consistent. In the _Cambridge History of English Literature_ it is thus written of _The Bruce_: first, that “it is in no real sense a history... though, strange to say, it has been regarded from his own time to this as, in all details, a trustworthy source for the history of the period”--a clear exaggeration;[49] and then a few pages farther on: “While Barbour’s narrative contains a certain amount of anecdotal matter derived from tradition, and, on some occasions, deviates from the truth of history, it is, on the whole, moderate, truthful, and historical”[50]--which is quite another pair of sleeves. [43] _Short History_, p. 211. [44] _The Wallace and The Bruce_, p. 93. [45] See on II. 239. [46] XIX. 486. [47] An article on Barbour’s _Bruce_ in the _Saturday Review_, 1872, vol. xxxiii., p. 90, has all the marks of the “belabouring” method of Professor Freeman. Barbour’s “historical value,” it is affirmed, “is as low as value can be,” and there are intermittent shrieks of “shameless falsehood,” “conscious liar,” etc. The usual play is made with the supposed identification of the two Bruces, and it is declared that on this “the whole story hangs,” which, in its own way, is a statement just as unwarranted and absurd. It is easy to fix on the error as to Edward being in the Holy Land when the question arose as to the succession, and the antedating of his death. But the critic, with full opportunity for being correct, can sin as to dates quite as egregiously. “In authentic history,” he says, “somewhat more than three years passed between the death of Alexander III. in Lent, 1289, and the coronation of John Balliol on St. Andrew’s Day, 1292.” Quite wrong. In “authentic history” Alexander was killed on March 19, 1286 (1285 by old reckoning). This is a criticism of Barbour’s “six years” in I. 39! He objects to the statement that the Queen was put “in prison,” because she was entertained in one of her husband’s manors. But she is always officially spoken of as “in custody,” and the stone walls of a manor even make a good enough prison. This is mere carping, and most of the rest is of the same sort, where it does not depend on a forcing or misunderstanding of the text. Barbour, he complains, makes the difference between Bruce and Balliol “one between male and female succession.” So, in a sense, it was (see on I. 54), but the critic has not taken the trouble to understand how. Barbour, however, is certainly confusing. [48] _The Brus_, Spalding Club edition, 1856, p. ix. [49] Vol. ii., p. 104. [50] P. 108. The fact is that these wayward judgments rest upon too narrow a basis of induction, and that induction, too, usually irrelevant or uncertain--considerations as to the nature of Romance, Barbour’s literary awkwardness and literary dressing, with inadequate examination of the external evidence. But if Barbour professes to write history, as he does profess, and as he gives every evidence of honestly trying to do, he can surely claim to be tried by the appropriate tests--those of official records or other contemporary accounts, and, in the last resource, by his performance so far as these carry us, and by an estimate of the probable sources of what is peculiar to himself. Nor must the quality of his critical equipment be overlooked; he frankly lets us know that of certain incidents different versions were in circulation--some said that the fatal quarrel between Bruce and Comyn fell otherwise than as he has related, and he includes the divergent accounts of how Bruce and his man escaped the hound; and there are other matters for which, lacking certainty himself, he is content to cite popular report. Towards prevailing and attractive superstitions, necromancy, astrology, and the like, his attitude is bluntly sceptical; yet an apparently well-attested case of prophecy--not one, it must be owned, exhibiting any exceptional degree of penetration--he does record, with very distinct reservation of judgment.[51] There is no supernatural machinery in _The Bruce_, no visions, miraculous agencies, or other such distractions: for these we must go to sober prose. But such is not the manner of popular romance with which it has been usual to class the manner of _The Bruce_. Barbour is not writing a conventional romance with historic persons and incidents for his material; he is writing history which has all the qualities of romance in real life. Of the same type were the exploits of Edward Bruce, which of themselves, he says, would furnish material for many romances.[52] So comes it, then, that a careful and most competent investigator like Joseph Bain can authoritatively pronounce _The Bruce_ to be “of the highest value for the period,”[53] and affirm that “in these details he is almost always correct, with occasional errors in names.”[54] Barbour’s errors, indeed, lie on the surface, and are typical of his time, not wilful perversions on his part--events are transposed, wrong dates given, figures almost always exaggerated. On the other side a study of the notes to the present volume will show how trustworthy he is in the main, and, repeatedly, how strikingly and minutely accurate. His profession to tell a truthful story, so far as his knowledge will take him, must be accepted as fully borne out. [51] Bk. IV. 767-774. Contempt for astrology, indeed, had already gone pretty far--Chaucer’s _Franklin_ has it (_F.s’_ Tale); but the contrary opinion still held most ground, and prophecy was in the enjoyment of full respect. Theological authority was divided and uncertain on the matter. [52] IX. 492. [53] _Calendar of Documents_, vol. iii., p. ix, note. Book I. is a hasty introduction. [54] _Ibid._ Moreover the reflection is forced upon us at many points that, in addition to the oral accounts of which he makes use, those of actual participators like Sir Allan of Cathcart, and John Thomson for the Irish campaigns, besides relations and reminiscences otherwise derived, Barbour had various contemporary writings at his command. Such was certainly the case with Sir Thomas Gray, who wrote, a prisoner in Edinburgh Castle, twenty years before. His _Scalacronica_ embodies the results of research in the library of his prison where he found Scottish chronicles in verse and prose, in Latin, French, and English, and he expressly refers to such chronicles in his account of Bruce, letting us know that there was in existence a description of the Battle of Bannockburn, and, incidentally, that Barbour even has not exhausted the fund of stories of adventure told of the fugitive King. More curious and suggestive is the citation, in the bye-going, by Jean le Bel, Canon of Liège, of a “history made by the said King Robert” (_en hystoire faitte par le dit roy Robert_), that is the King Robert whom, he tells us, Edward I. had chased by hounds in the forests.[55] It is an allowable inference that these accessible materials were known to the learned and inquiring Barbour, when he took to deal with a subject familiar to him from his earliest years, and so congenial to his instincts, literary and national. It is worth noting that Sir Walter Scott, on the publication of the _Lord of the Isles_, which draws so handsomely upon _The Bruce_, was accused of a lack of proper patriotism, meaning the pungent and rather aggressive patriotism of a long-irritated Scotland distinctive of _The Wallace_ and certain subsequent productions, but not of _The Bruce_, the spirit of which, too, was in harmony with that of the great reviver of romance. There is no malice in _The Bruce_; the malice and bitterness are in the contemporary war-literature of the other side. And Barbour is no sentimentalist; his patriotism is not pretentious or exclusive, nor such as leads him to depreciate an opponent, and is therefore not a distorting influence on facts, as Mr. Henderson postulates it must have been.[56] It is not possible to point to a single error on Barbour’s part which is fairly traceable to this cause. And his faults and errors, such as they are, may be paralleled over and over again from the most reputable of that century’s historians, to say nothing of those who, in later times, had to weave their web from less tangled and broken material. [55] _Chronique_, I, chap. xxii. [56] _Scottish Vernacular Literature_, p. 43. THE BRUCE BOOK I. Storys to rede ar delitabill, Suppos that thai be nocht bot fabill: Than suld storys that suthfast wer, And thai war said on gud maner, Have doubill plesance in heryng. 5 The fyrst plesance is the carpyng, And the tothir the suthfastnes That schawys the thing rycht as it wes: And suth thyngis that ar likand Tyll mannys heryng ar plesand. 10 Tharfor I wald fayne set my will, Giff my wyt mycht suffice thartill, To put in wryt a suthfast story, That it lest ay furth in memory, Swa that na tyme of lenth it let, 15 Na ger it haly be forget. For aulde storys that men redys, Representis to thaim the dedys Of stalwart folk that lyvyt ar, Rycht as thai than in presence war. And certis, thai suld weill have prys 20 That in thar tyme war wycht and wys, And led thar lyff in gret travaill, And oft, in hard stour off bataill, Wan richt gret price off chevalry, 25 And war voydyt off cowardy. As wes King Robert off Scotland, That hardy wes off hart and hand; And gud Schyr James off Douglas, That in his tyme sa worthy was, 30 That off hys price and hys bounte, In fer landis renownyt wes he. Off thaim I thynk this buk to ma: Now God gyff grace that I may swa Tret it, and bryng it till endyng, 35 That I say nocht bot suthfast thing! [15: S following H reads _lenth of tyme_, characterising the expression in E “an obvious error.” But _cf._ analogous phrase in line 531, and see note.] How the Lords of Scotland took the King of England to be Arbiter at the last. [Sidenote: 1290] _Discord over the Succession_] [Sidenote: 1291] _The Dispute is referred to Edward I_] Quhen Alexander the King was deid, That Scotland haid to steyr and leid, The land sex yher, and mayr perfay, Lay desolat eftyr hys day; 40 Till that the barnage at the last Assemblyt thaim, and fayndyt fast To cheys a king thar land to ster, That, off awncestry, cummyn wer Off kingis that aucht that reawte, 45 And mayst had rycht thair king to be. Bot envy, that is sa feloune, Maid amang thaim discencioun. For sum wald haiff the Balleoll king; For he wes cummyn off the offspryng 50 Off hyr that eldest systir was. And othir sum nyt all that cas; And said, that he thair king suld be That wes in als nere degre, And cummyn wes of the neist male, 55 And in branch collaterale. Thai said, successioun of kyngrik Was nocht to lawer feys lik; For thar mycht succed na female, Quhill foundyn mycht be ony male 60 That were in lyne evyn descendand; Thai bar all othir wayis on hand, For than the neyst cummyn off the seid, Man or woman, suld succeid. Be this resoun that part thocht hale, 65 That the lord off Anandyrdale, Robert the Bruys Erle off Carryk, Aucht to succeid to the kynryk. The barownys thus war at discord, That on na maner mycht accord; 70 Till at the last thai all concordyt, That all thar spek suld be recordyt Till Schyr Edward off Ingland King; And he suld swer that, but fenyheyng, He suld that arbytre disclar, 75 Off thir twa that I tauld off ar, Quhilk sulde succeid to sic a hycht; And lat him ryng that had the rycht. This ordynance thaim thocht the best, For at that tyme wes pes and rest 80 Betwyx Scotland and Ingland bath; And thai couth nocht persave the skaith That towart thaim wes apperand; For that at the King off Ingland Held swylk freyndschip and cumpany 85 To thar King, that wes swa worthy, Thai trowyt that he, as gud nychtbur, And as freyndsome compositur, Wald have jugyt in lawte: Bot othir wayis all yheid the gle. 90 A! blynd folk full off all foly! Haid yhe umbethoucht yhow enkrely, Quhat perell to yhow mycht apper, Yhe had nocht wrocht on that maner: Haid yhe tane keip how at that King 95 Alwayis, for-owtyn sojournyng, Travayllyt for to wyn senyhory, And, throw his mycht, till occupy Landis that war till him marcheand, As Walis was, and als Ireland; 100 That he put to swylk thrillage, That thai that war off hey parage Suld ryn on fute, as rebaldaill, Quhen he wald ony folk assaill. Durst nane of Walis in bataill ride; 105 Na yhet, fra evyn fell, abyd Castell or wallyt toune with-in, That he ne suld lyff and lymmys tyne. In-to swilk thrillage thaim held he, That he ourcome throw his powste. 110 Yhe mycht se he suld occupy Throw slycht, that he ne mycht throw maistri. Had yhe tane kep qu
how high the initiative starts,’ is the conviction of all students of China, except those who have never been within ten thousand miles of her coast. This very weakness, coupled with her malleability, even to the profession of arms—witness the gallant conduct of the Chinese Regiment from Wei-hai-wei under its British officers—is the kernel of the danger of the present situation, for the nation that should be free to organize China would be a menace to the rest of the world. Those who aim at conquest are therefore playing for a high stake, and their inspiration is more cogent than that which urges others to the defence of mere trading opportunities. The course of the coming century depends upon the result of this trial of statesmanship. Woe betide England if her leaders fail her now! HENRY NORMAN. CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION xv _PART I.—SIBERIA_ CHAPTER I. THE ORIGINS OF RUSSIAN EXPANSION IN SIBERIA AND THE NATURAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE COUNTRY 1 II. THE LAND OF SIBERIA AND ITS INHABITANTS 9 III. AGRICULTURAL SIBERIA AND THE RURAL POPULATION 17 IV. MINERAL RESOURCES AND INDUSTRIES 27 V. SIBERIAN COMMERCE AND THE TRANSPORT OF TEA 31 VI. SIBERIAN TOWNS 38 VII. IMMIGRATION 43 VIII. MEANS OF COMMUNICATION IN SIBERIA 56 IX. THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY 64 X. THE RAILWAY THROUGH MANCHURIA 71 XI. THE ALTERED RELATIONS BETWEEN EUROPE AND THE FAR EAST RESULTING FROM THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY 76 _PART II.—JAPAN_ I. THE ORIGIN AND PAST HISTORY OF JAPAN 81 II. JAPAN AND THE REVOLUTION OF 1868 97 III. MODERN JAPAN 110 IV. JAPANESE INDUSTRY 118 V. RURAL JAPAN 125 VI. DEVELOPMENT OF JAPANESE COMMERCE 135 VII. THE FINANCES OF JAPAN 143 VIII. THE DOMESTIC POLITICS AND PARLIAMENT OF JAPAN 154 IX. JAPAN’S FOREIGN POLICY AND HER MILITARY POWER 164 X. THE FUTURE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION IN JAPAN—RELATIONS BETWEEN JAPANESE AND FOREIGNERS 171 _PART III.—CHINA_ I. THE CHINESE PROBLEM 183 II. THE CAPITAL OF CHINA 188 III. THE COUNTRY IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF PEKING—NUMEROUS SIGNS OF THE DECLINE OF THE EMPIRE 198 IV. THE LITERARY AND MANDARIN CLASS—PRINCIPAL CAUSES OF THE DECADENCE OF THE EMPIRE 204 V. THE CHINESE PEOPLE AND THEIR CHARACTERISTICS 212 VI. FOREIGNERS IN CHINA—THE ATTITUDE OF THE CHINESE TOWARDS WESTERN CIVILIZATION 228 VII. THE POSITION AND WORK OF FOREIGNERS IN CHINA 234 VIII. CHINA AND THE POWERS 242 IX. RUSSIA, FRANCE, AND ENGLAND IN THE FAR EAST IN 1895–97 253 X. CHINA AND THE POWERS 1897–99—‘SPHERES OF INFLUENCE,’ AND THE ‘OPEN DOOR’ 266 XI. THE FUTURE OF CHINA—MAINTENANCE OR PARTITION OF THE CELESTIAL EMPIRE? 276 INTRODUCTION[5] This book is the result of personal observations made in the course of a journey through Siberia, China, and Japan, lasting over a year, and is supplemented by information derived chiefly from official and carefully collated documents. Asia, the largest of the five Continents, is still the most densely populated; but after being the cradle of civilization, it has been for many centuries dead to all progress. It is in the awakening of this vast Continent through the influx of men and ideas from the West, by the application of modern science to the exploitation of its wealth, that consists the phenomenon which we are witnessing at the present time, and to the examination of which the author devotes the following pages. The effect of European action in Asia does not, it is true, date from our time; it began as soon as the Asiatic invasion of Europe had ceased. In the sixteenth century, whilst the Russians were settling in Siberia, we find the Portuguese landing on the coasts of India, China, and Japan. For a long time, however, the influence of the West was merely superficial. By the middle of the nineteenth century it had scarcely reached India and a few points on the coast of Asia Minor; all the rest of Asia remained obdurate. Siberia was almost a desert, unexplored, without any communication with the outer world; China a stranger to all progress; and Japan hermetically sealed. Thus, all the temperate zones of Asia, those best suited to the white race, as well as those inhabited by the most numerous, industrious, and vigorous populations, regarded from whatever point of view, were fifty years ago completely outside of European influence. At this moment two facts of vital importance have become prominent, which have been passed over almost unnoticed by European nations, greatly preoccupied by other questions. In 1854, Japan began to open her ports to foreigners; and Russia, descending almost simultaneously from the glacial solitudes of the Okhotsk Sea, seized, at the expense of China, the banks of the Amur, thus coming into actual contact with the Celestial Empire, which hitherto she had only reached through deserts, advanced her frontier up to the boundaries of Korea, and acquired a port on the Pacific (latitude 43°), free of ice nearly all the year round. This was the moment when that awakening of Northern and Eastern Asia began which has become more and more active, especially during the last ten years. Immediately after the conquest of the Province of the Amur, Count Muravief-Amurski, one of the prime movers in the expansion of Russia, foresaw under what conditions the Muscovite Empire could make its power felt in the Far East, and suggested the construction of a Trans-Siberian Railway, which, thirty years later, was undertaken by Alexander III. In building it, his main idea was to open a strategic route to facilitate the passage of his troops into China. The Trans-Siberian Railway was thus constructed far less in the interests of the country it traversed than for those of the countries at its opposite extremities. But it was presently discovered that the southern portion of Siberia through which the line runs possessed a climate scarcely more severe than that of Manitoba and of the far west of Canada, an equally fertile soil, with even better irrigation and still greater mineral wealth, the development of which was only prevented by the complete absence of any means of communication. Now Siberia, instead of being shut off from the rest of the world, will be traversed by one of the most frequented routes in the universe, and its southern zone will become one of the richest possessions of the white race. The Russian peasants have a natural tendency to emigrate, and since the abolition of serfdom have been invading Siberia in great numbers, and rapidly settling there. More than 200,000 emigrants arrive there every year, and the births greatly outnumber the deaths, so that the population of the Asiatic domains of the Tsar is annually increased by more than 300,000. Russian colonization doubtless has its drawbacks, the most serious among which are lack of capital and absence of education and enterprise among the labouring classes. In spite of this, one fact remains: thanks to the Trans-Siberian Railway, a numerous white population is already occupying the whole North of Asia, from the Urals to the Pacific, and thus Russia can meanwhile make the full weight of her power felt in the Far East, which will certainly prove of incalculable benefit to the advance of modern civilization throughout Asia. While Siberia was being colonized, and the Trans-Siberian Railway was assuming definite shape, Japan was accomplishing her extraordinary transformation. In 1854 the Powers, under threat of bombardment, forced open the gates of this feudal State, whose customs differed from ours more than those of any other Asiatic country, and the entrance to which was forbidden to foreigners under pain of death, and which for ten years was the scene of numerous outrages against them. Forty-five years later new Japan deals on a footing of equality with the European Powers; its admission to the number of civilized States is signalized by the suppression of the extra-territorial privileges of the Europeans, and it has become a centre of great industry, whose cotton stuffs compete in China with those of India, America, and Great Britain. European steamers supply themselves from her coaling-stations; her foreign commerce amounts annually to £44,000,000 sterling; her soil is intersected by 3,125 miles of railway; a crowd of little steamers, often native built, ply along her coasts, whilst regular lines of steamers fly her flag in the ports of Europe, America, and Australia; her fleet is the most powerful in the Pacific; her army, which crushed China five years ago, formed the bulk of the international troops that recently marched to the relief of the foreign Legations threatened by the Chinese. Before these realities the scepticism of those who have so long jeered at these Asiatics playing at being Europeans must perforce turn to admiration. Many people, however, find it difficult to believe in the durability and the sincerity of Japan’s transformation. Without concealing from ourselves that the prodigious work which has been accomplished in Japan has sometimes been premature, that imitation of Europe has occasionally been pushed to excess, that it has even been directed in some points where it would have been wiser to have remained faithful to national traditions, we believe—as one of the best informed Japanese we have ever met assured us—that the great wind from the West which is blowing upon this country has come to last. We find this conviction confirmed both by observation of the Japan of the present and in the lessons taught by her past. Where the changes have been carried too far, certain unassimilated and unessential scoriæ will be eliminated, but the better part of the work will remain and a new Japan be the result, in many points similar to Europe in the scientific and material sense of civilization—profoundly modified and brought nearer to the West, yet differing from us from the social and moral point of view. In short, we have confidence in the future of Japan, if she only takes the lessons she has received to heart, and if she be not over-proud of being the ‘Great Britain of the Far East,’ and is not carried away by a spirit of aggrandizement that may exhaust her resources. The prudent policy which she appears to have adopted in the face of the present crisis in China is, however, of a character well calculated to reassure her friends. The study of the Chinese problem closes this volume. The Celestial Empire, so far from being revivified like its neighbours, has resolutely made no concession to Western civilization. As long as China had only to trouble over the intermittent and not far-reaching action of Western Powers, distracted by a thousand other cares, and whose commercial activity found outlets in other directions, she had not much difficulty in maintaining her isolation. From the moment, however, when she found herself face to face with near and powerful neighbors, rejuvenated nations, from whose eyes her incurable weaknesses were not screened by the illusion of distance, she was destined, if she did not yield with a good grace, to be swept along by the torrent of innovation which she has so long and so vainly sought to resist. Japan, by her victories in a war which was in reality a war of Western Science _versus_ Chinese Routine, a war of Progress against Stagnation, in 1895 forced open the gates of China. If she had not done so then, undoubtedly Russia would have achieved the same work a few years later, after the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway. The Middle Kingdom no longer frightens the world by its vastness, and those innovations which it abhors are now thrust upon it by foreigners; thus has been brought about a situation pregnant with political and economical consequences still further complicated by the rivalries of the European nations vying with each other to realize a transformation from which they hope to reap enormous advantages. We have also endeavoured in this book to note down the salient features of the present position, the knowledge of which may serve to throw a light on the future of the Celestial Empire. Firstly, by recalling the detestable Government imposed upon China by the all-powerful class of _literati_, who remain petrified in their stubborn pride, incurable routinists, and hostile to progress; then, in contrast to the decrepitude of this Government, the vitality of the people, whose undeniable defects are compensated by an endurance, perseverance, and commercial ability of the highest order; the attitude of this people towards Europeans and their civilization, the part hitherto played by the latter, their trade in the ports, and the quite recent beginnings of great industries in these very ports; the concessions for various undertakings granted during the last four years to these very Europeans who are at last emerging from the few acres in which they had hitherto been penned at infrequent points along the coast or on the banks of the Yang-tsze, and who are abandoning their exclusive devotion to trade in order to carry out a system of real colonization by applying Western methods to the realization of the wealth of China; and finally the disquieting spectacle of the Powers in rivalry around this decrepit Empire, on which none dare lay a too heavy hand lest it crumble away and they lose the best pieces, which each of them dreams eventually of annexing. Since this book was published in France, in April this year, a particularly grave crisis has arisen in China. The most violently reactionary faction in the Court of Peking has seized the reins of power and has headed a movement for the extermination of the foreigner; the regular army, making common cause with the fanatical adherents of secret societies, has besieged in their Legations the Ministers of all the nations, and has opposed the onward march of the troops despatched to their relief; hundreds of missionaries and thousands of native Christians have been butchered throughout the Empire, and everywhere, even in the Treaty Ports, the security of Europeans has been menaced. These appalling events have, it would seem, taken Europe quite unprepared, although warnings were not wanting. A perusal of a file of the Hong-Kong and Shanghai newspapers will easily prove that great uneasiness prevailed as far back as last spring, if not in the Legations, at any rate in the Treaty Ports. The present crisis will, it is true, not be a matter of much surprise to those who have studied China. The reader will notice several passages in this book in which we are reminded of the necessity of proceeding with the utmost caution in introducing progressive measures into the ancient Empire, if we wish to avoid an outbreak culminating in a sanguinary upheaval and the possible collapse of that worm-eaten structure. It would appear, however, in fact, that during the past three years the ill-advised action of Europe has done everything to bring about such a disaster. Too numerous railway and mining concessions, preliminary works commenced simultaneously in a great number of localities, without sufficient regard for the superstitions of the natives, the invasion by foreign engineers and foremen with overbearing manners, could not but irritate the Chinese, and prepare the ground for agitators and agents of the secret societies and (unemployed) literati who swarm everywhere. The violent action of Germany at Kiao-chau, followed by the seizure of many points on the coast by the other Powers, readily induced the Court and literati to believe that the Foreign Powers intended to partition China, and treat her as a conquered country. The governing classes among the Chinese have little patriotism, as we understand it, but they tremble for their salaries and privileges, and, in common with the populace, they beheld with horror the prospective violation of their ancient customs. They could not therefore be expected to repress with any energy disturbances with whose authors they were in cordial sympathy. Again, the dynasty of foreign origin which reigns in China is now worn out and tottering; it knows that any concession made to the foreigner will be turned to its disadvantage, that the best means of recovering prestige is to pose as the enemy of the Western civilization; it has even to fear that any great opposition on its part to popular prejudice may one day lead to its being swept away. What wonder, then, that under the rule of the old Dowager Empress—an energetic Sovereign, perhaps, but ignorant, like the harem recluse she is, and, moreover, passionate, like most women—the Court viewed benignly the organization known as the _I-ho-chuan_, almost literally, ‘League of Patriots,’ which we call ‘Boxers,’ who first spread themselves over Shan-tung, where the foreigners had displayed the greatest brutality and tactlessness! The creatures of the Empress, narrow-minded and brutal Manchu princes, mandarins of an ultra-reactionary type, who, having never been brought into contact with Europeans, are ignorant of the latter’s strength—all these people whom the Palace revolution in September, 1898, exalted to power, and who exercise it without control since the exile of Li Hung-chang to his distant Viceroyalty of Canton, have not learned how to observe the precautions which at one time guided that wily old fox. Imperial edicts have favoured the Boxers, ‘those loyal subjects who cultivate athletics for the protection of their families, and who bind together different villages for the purpose of mutual protection.’ In this association, affiliated with other secret societies, it was sought to discover a prop for the dynasty both at home and abroad. Arms were procured from Europe, intended either for the rebels or the regular army, and then, as always happens with feeble Governments in times of trouble, it was found impossible to stem the torrent so easily let loose, and increasing violence soon got the upper hand. The Empress even appears to have been overwhelmed by factions more reactionary and fanatical than herself—factions at whose head stands Prince Tuan, father of the recently adopted heir-presumptive. Such is the genesis of the present crisis. What are to be the consequences? They would be very grave if the chiefs of the movement hostile to foreigners removed the present Emperor to some distant place, and refused to negotiate on anything like reasonable terms, or if, leaving him in the hands of the Europeans, they should raise a competitor against him. The Emperor, whose accession to the Celestial throne is, in any case, according to Chinese ideas, irregular, and who has exasperated the mandarins by his attempts at reform, would thus run a great risk of being considered a usurper, both in the eyes of the people and the literati. What could the Powers do in such a case? We hardly dare dream of such a laborious, costly, and deadly undertaking as would be an expedition five or six hundred miles from the coast into the heart of a country like China, devoid of good means of transport, and where a large European army would find existence difficult. Besides, in the midst of complete anarchy and civil war, the Powers, whose union is already so unstable, would be forced to interfere, with the risk of irreparable disputes arising between them all at the finish. Even if the Court should come to terms and no competition for the Empire arise, the situation in China will none the less present great difficulties. The installation in Peking of an Emperor surrounded by councillors approved by the West and watched by a foreign garrison, which would be the most desirable end of the present acute crisis, would not suffice to restore order throughout the Empire. All the elements of agitation are now at boiling-point, and it is even to be feared that ere the allies are able to act vigorously on the offensive, the anti-foreign movement will have gained ground in the provinces. The prestige of the Manchu dynasty, greatly damaged already, will be still further lowered when the Emperor is exhibited as the puppet of the West. Ambitious aspirants of all sorts, Chinese patriots inimical to both Manchu and foreigner, even legitimate representatives of the ancient Ming Dynasty, will all of them seek to profit by this state of things, and, fishing in troubled waters, cause thereby a general recrudescence of insurrection, fomented by the secret societies. Will the Chinese Government succeed in repressing them by its own forces? This is not at all certain, and in that case will Europe charge herself with all the political, military, and financial risks involved in the exercise of such an avocation and become the police of China? It will perhaps be said that if the Manchu Dynasty can no longer maintain itself, it may be best to leave it to its fate and allow it to be replaced by another. A new, popular, and strong Government would then appear upon the scene, which would find it easier to observe the engagements imposed upon it.[6] But apart from the fact that this new Government might perhaps be very hostile to foreigners and difficult to bring to reason, the Manchus are not yet stripped of all power, and their overthrow would not be effected without a devastating civil war, lasting probably many years. Europe is now too much interested in China to encourage such a catastrophe. On the other hand, nobody desires the partition of the Celestial Empire. To begin with, the chief eventual rivals are not ready: Russia has not completed her Trans-Siberian Railway; England is hampered with her interminable war in South Africa; the United States, with a large portion of its population opposed to outside extension, insists that no part of the Middle Kingdom shall be closed to them—in other words, that it shall not be dismembered; Japan has not completed her armaments; her finances require careful attention, and she feels, besides, that she cannot act alone. France has every reason for averting a partition, in which her share (the provinces adjoining Tongking) would be a very poor one; and finally, the present insurrectionary movement should prove to the world—including Germany, who took so indiscreet an initiative at Kiao-chau—that it would not be easy to govern the Celestials after European methods, and that the mere task of establishing order in a large colony carved out of China might be beyond the strength even of the European Powers. This being the case, the only policy possible for all countries is to abandon for the present their personal aims, and to endeavour in unison to patch up the Manchu system. To depart from this line of action is to proceed to disaster. But the Powers will have to display some wisdom for a few years to come if this bolstering process is to have the least chance of success. The Court and the populace of the capital should be given a not-easily-forgotten lesson: let the instigators of the proposed murders of the ministers be delivered up and made to pay for their cowardly conduct; if necessary, even let their bodies be left unburied, which, in the eyes of the Chinese, is the most terrible of all punishments; let the old Empress be exiled if it should appear necessary to remove her from power. But after all this is done, let the legal order of succession be respected. While putting pressure on the Court to appoint moderate or even slightly progressive men to the head of affairs, avoid a too direct and a too evident interference in the selection of rulers, which would be perilously inadvisable. On the one hand, the Powers would soon cease to act in unison, each considering such and such a grand mandarin more or less its friend and such another its enemy; and on the other hand, the men chosen would lose all authority, as they would be looked upon as agents of the foreigners. Against this, it is absolutely indispensable that Peking and Tien-tsin should be occupied during several years by a strong garrison, otherwise it will be said that the foreign soldiery have departed through fear, and that the permanent fortification of Ta-ku should be forbidden. These last measures doubtless involve certain inconveniences, granting the difficulty of maintaining harmony between the various Powers, but if they should be neglected the lesson would risk being too soon forgotten, as were those of 1860 and 1894–95; moreover, they would provide a means of permanent pressure on the Chinese Government. Nevertheless, if it is important to strike hard at the centre, the more reason have we to refrain from any act calculated to lower in the provinces the prestige and the authority of a regime, the sources of whose weakness are already numerous. The threat of popular risings will continue one of the serious dangers of the position in the Far East; to avoid them, we must not seize upon the first incident that arises as a pretext for demanding concessions, the extortion of which disturbs and estranges the mandarins, whilst their execution irritates the people. If we do not accept such a course, we run the risk of creating permanent anarchy. The surest way of obtaining tranquillity in China would be a formal, or at any rate a tacit, international understanding binding the Powers for some years not to support at Peking any demand for a concession as long as the greater number of railways now under construction are not completed. That would, moreover, enable European capitalists, who have not been very eager to take up Chinese loans, to ascertain the value of their investments in the Middle Kingdom. We believe that the business and practical sense so highly developed in the Chinese will induce them to become reconciled to the material side of our civilization, but by multiplying simultaneously in every direction preliminary works, say, for railways, we annoy them and wound their susceptibilities before giving them a chance to appreciate the advantage of our innovations, not to mention the economical disturbance arising therefrom. In conclusion, although patriotism is at a low ebb in the Middle Kingdom and the military spirit still lower, we might, by worrying the Chinese too much, end by creating the one and resuscitating the other. In any case, if the Chinese make bad soldiers—chiefly because they have detestable officers—they are first-class rioters. Wherefore any idea of dividing China, either now or at some future time, seems to us ill-advised. Passing events will have taught a useful lesson, should they bring Europe to abandon once and for ever this fatal idea. It was very wisely said in the English Parliament during the present crisis that ‘China must be governed by the Chinese and for the Chinese,’ which does not mean that it should be governed against the foreigners. Let us hope that all Europe will frankly take to heart this sagacious remark. PIERRE LEROY-BEAULIEU. THE AWAKENING OF THE EAST _PART I.—SIBERIA_ CHAPTER I. THE ORIGINS OF RUSSIAN EXPANSION IN SIBERIA AND THE NATURAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE COUNTRY Antiquity of Russian expansion in Asia, which is contemporary with that of Western Europe in the New World—Analogy between the North of Asia and the North of America—The three natural Zones of Siberia—Their climate, extent and capabilities—The Polar Zone is absolutely sterile and uninhabitable—The Forest Zone—The Meridional Zone, which is both cultivable and colonizable. No sooner had Russia shaken off the yoke of the Tatars which weighed upon her for three centuries, and left its mark so deeply impressed as to be still visible, than, reformed and united, she began to expand beyond her natural confines. In this she only imitated the example of Spain, which a short time previously had been delivered from the Moors and united under the sceptre of Ferdinand and Isabella. Being essentially a continental country, without easy access to the sea, and having no difficult frontier to bar her expansion to the East, Russia turned her attention in that direction, and, defeating her old masters, annexed the Tatar kingdoms of Kazan and Astrakhan. This conquest extended her frontier to the immediate neighbourhood of the Ural Mountains. In the second half of the sixteenth century Tsar Ivan the Terrible found himself possessor of vast but sparsely-peopled regions, at a great distance from his capital, and extremely difficult of direct administration. It is a remarkable coincidence that under these circumstances an organization should have been formed in Russia almost spontaneously with others of the same kind which were to prove of such great utility in the West—_i.e._, a great colonizing company, under Imperial charter. The Strogonofs, very rich merchants, who had extended their sphere of trading operations as far as the basin of the Kama, the great affluent of the Volga, addressed in 1558 a petition to the Tsar, in which they demanded a concession of the lands in that region, promising at the same time, in consideration of the grant, to build a city, develop the resources, and defend the country against the attacks of savage tribes. Ivan the Terrible acceded to their request, accorded them divers trading privileges, and conferred upon them the right to administer justice and to levy troops. Thus was organized a regular chartered company analogous with the East India Company and with those more recently formed in South Africa and on the banks of the Niger. The company in question began the conquest of Siberia. The Strogonofs, once established on the Kama, experienced, as generally happens when a civilized people finds itself in contact with barbarous tribes, the necessity of extending further eastwards at the expense of their Tatar neighbours, if only to protect themselves from their depredations. In 1581 the Tsar gave them permission to employ a celebrated Cossack pirate, Ermak Timoféef,[7] who seized the city of Sibir, or Isker, then capital of Khan Kuchun, the principal Tatar chief of Western Siberia. Six years later the present city of Tobolsk rose on the site of Sibir. We will not attempt to narrate the history of the conquest of Siberia, which strongly resembles the taking of North America by French pioneers at about the same time. When the Tatar tribes of the West had been driven towards the Southern Steppes, the Cossacks encountered little opposition from the poor hunters and fishermen whom they found in the district. In summer these Cossack adventurers navigated the rivers in canoes, whilst their winters were spent in block-houses, or _ostrogs_, surrounded by palisades not unlike the forts erected by the Hudson Bay Company. Soon they became very numerous, being attracted from the more civilized parts of Russia by the growing profits of the fur trade. In 1636 they had reached the mouth of the Yenissei, and a year later arrived on the banks of the Lena. In less than two years—that is, in 1639—they had discovered the shores of the Okhotsk, and fifty years later the whole continent had been traversed from end to end. In 1648 the Cossack adventurers Alexief and Dezhnief doubled the eastern extremity of Asia, and arrived at Kamtchatka, and in 1651 the Ataman Khabarof established himself on the Amur, where he discovered other adventurers, who had already descended this river in 1643. At this juncture the Russians found themselves face to face with the Manchus, who had just conquered China, and notwithstanding the heroic defence of their fortress at Albazine on two occasions, they were obliged in 1688 to abandon the middle and lower basins of the Amur to the Sons of Heaven in accordance with the treaty of Nertchinsk, a territory which they only reconquered from the degenerate Chinese in 1858. To the west as well as to the east of Siberia the Russian frontiers remained scarcely altered until about the middle of the present century. It was only in 1847 that the Tsar’s troops were able to cross the arid zone of the Kirghiz Steppes. The policy of Peter the Great was directed towards Europe, and his dream was to extend Russia towards the West by the conquest of Constantinople—a fact which accounts for the extinction of zeal on the part of Russia with respect to her Asiatic possessions, which were now treated merely as penal settlements or as fields for scientific investigation, whenever the Sovereigns took it into their heads to become specially interested in such matters. The increase of Imperial authority and the more regular organization of the State had in the meantime subdued the adventurous and enterprising spirit of the Cossacks, and that particular class of men, half soldiers, half brigands, who had proved themselves such hardy pioneers at an earlier epoch, now disappeared, and in the middle of the eighteenth century Siberia was opened as a field of colonization. In spite of the many obstacles which the system of serfdom in Russia placed in the way of peasant emigration, in 1851 the population of Siberia had reached 2,400,000, a figure which, although not very large considering the immensity of the country, was in excess of the population of Canada at the same period, which numbered only 1,800,000 souls. From this point of view the Russians had no reason to be ashamed of their colonization, and, as a matter of fact, have none to-day. According to the census of January, 1897, there were 5,731,732 Siberians living on a territory of 4,812,800 square miles, whereas in 1891 there were only 4,833,000 Canadians inhabiting the 3,721,800 square miles known as the Dominion. The density of the population of Northern Asia is not much inferior to that of British North America, and it must not be forgotten that the conditions of life in Siberia are greatly inferior to those of Canada. A comparison of the natural conditions existing in the northern regions of the old and the new world shows that they are nearly identical. Both consist for the most part of vast expanses of flat country, often covered with magnificent forests, and quite as frequently barren. Siberia, like Canada, is irrigated by noble rivers, which under a milder climate would constitute a superb network of intercommunication; but unfortunately both countries are hampered by an extremely rigorous climate, which imprisons these fine rivers during many months of the year under an impenetrably thick coating of ice. In the north of Siberia as well as of Canada the country is so intensely cold as to render agriculture impossible. That part, therefore, of both countries which is capable of exploitation is of extremely limited extent, consisting both in Russian Asia and in British North America of a ribbon-like zone some 3,720 miles in length and from 250 to 300 in width. If Siberia resembles Canada in some things, it must be confessed that the latter country has every advantage in point of beauty and position. In the first place, Siberia is more to the north; that portion which approaches nearest to the Equator is situated about 43° latitude—that is to say, a little more to the north than the extreme south of Upper Canada, and, being on the Pacific, it is most distant from European Russia, whereas the corresponding part of Canada is the nearest to England, and washed by the Atlantic, the St. Lawrence, and the great lakes. On the other hand, that part of Siberia which is closest to Russia is covered to the south by barren steppes or by mountains which confine the centres of civilization between 54° and 57° latitude. Moreover, whereas the coast of Canada on the Pacific enjoys
intellect, which had ever been unclouded, began to give signs of aberration. One day he said to an Italian delegation, "The French are Italians; the Italians are French. French and Italians ought to go to Africa together and found the United States of Europe." The red rays of twilight announced the oncoming night. Those who saw them will never forget his grandiose funeral ceremonies, that casket under the Arc de Triomphe, covered with a veil of crape, and that immense crowd which paid homage to the greatest lyric poet of the century. There was a committee to make musical preparations and I was a member. The most extraordinary ideas were proposed. One man wanted to have the _Marseillaise_ in a minor key. Another wanted violins, for "violins produce an excellent effect in the open air." Naturally we got nowhere. The great procession started in perfect order, but, as in all long processions, gaps occurred. I was astonished to find myself in the middle of the Champs Elysées, in a wide open space, with no one near me but Ferdinand de Lesseps, Paul Bert, and a member of the Académie, whose name I shall not mention as he is worthy of all possible respect. De Lesseps was then at the height of his glory, and from time to time applause greeted him as he passed. Suddenly the Academician leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Evidently they are applauding us." CHAPTER IV THE HISTORY OF AN OPÉRA-COMIQUE Young musicians often complain, and not without reason, of the difficulties of their careers. It may, perhaps, be useful to remind them that their elders have not always had beds of roses, and that too often they have had to breast both wind and sea after spending their best years in port, unable to make a start. These obstacles frequently are the result of the worst sort of malignity, when it is for the best interest of everyone--both of the theatres which rebuff them, and the public which ignores them--that they be permitted to set out under full sail. In 1864 one of the most brilliant of the reviews had the following comments to make on this subject: Our real duty--and it is a true kindness--is not to encourage them (beginners) but to discourage them. In art a vocation is everything, and a vocation needs no one, for God aids. What use is it to encourage them and their efforts when the public obstinately refuses to pay any attention to them? If an act is ordered from one of them, it fails to go. Two or three years later the same thing is tried again with the same result. No theatre, even if it were four times as heavily subsidized as the Théâtre-Lyrique, could continue to exist on such resources. So the result is that they turn to accredited talent and call on such men from outside as Gounod, Felicien David and Victor Massé. The younger composers at once shout treason and scandal. Then, they select masterpieces by Mozart and Weber and there are the same outcries and recriminations. In the final analysis where are these young composers of genius? Who are they and what are their names? Let them go to the orchestra and hear _Le Nozze di Figaro_, _Obéron_, _Freischutz_ and _Orphée_... we are doing something for them by placing such models before them. The young composers who were thus politely invited to be seated included, among others, Bizet, Delibes, Massenet, and the writer of these lines. Massenet and I would have been satisfied with writing a ballet for the Opéra. He proposed the _Rat Catcher_ from an old German tale, while I proposed _Une nuit de Cléopâtra_ on the text of Théophile Gautier. They refused us the honor, and, when they consented to order a ballet from Delibes, they did not dare to trust him with the whole work. They let him do only one act and the other was given to a Hungarian composer. As the experiment succeeded, they allowed Delibes to write, without assistance, his marvellous _Coppélia_. But Delibes had the legitimate ambition of writing a grand opera. He never reached so far. [Illustration: The Paris Opéra] Bizet and I were great friends and we told each other all our troubles. "You're less unfortunate than I am," he used to tell me. "You can do something besides things for the stage. I can't. That's my only resource." When Bizet put on the delightful _Pêcheurs de Perles_--he was helped by powerful influences--there was a general outcry and an outbreak of abuse. The Devil himself straight from Hell would not have received a worse reception. Later on, as we know, _Carmen_ was received in the same way. I was, indeed, able to do something beside work for the stage, and it was just that which closed the stage to me. I was a writer of symphonies, an organist and a pianist, so how could I be capable of writing an opera! The qualities which go to make a pianist were in a particularly bad light in the greenroom. Bizet played the piano admirably, but he never dared to play in public for fear of making his position worse. I suggested to Carvalho that I write a _Macbeth_ for Madame Viardot. Naturally enough he preferred to put on Verdi's _Macbeth_. It was an utter failure and cost him thirty thousand francs. They tried to interest a certain princess, a patron of the arts, in my behalf. "What," she replied, "isn't he satisfied with his position? He plays the organ at the Madeleine and the piano at my house. Isn't that enough for him?" But that wasn't enough for me, and to overcome the obstacles, I caused a scandal. At the age of twenty-eight I competed for the _Prix de Rome_! They did not give it to me on the ground that I didn't need it, but the day after the award, Auber, who was very fond of me, asked Carvalho for a libretto for me. Carvalho gave me _Le Timbre d'Argent_, which he didn't know what to do with as several musicians had refused to touch it. There were good reasons for this, for, despite an excellent foundation for the music, the libretto had serious faults. I demanded that Barbier and Carré, the authors, should make important changes, which they did at once. Then, I retired to the heights of Louveciennes and in two months wrote the score of the five acts which the work had at first. I had to wait two years before Carvalho would consent to hear the music. Finally, worn out by my importunities, they decided to get rid of me, so Carvalho invited me to dine with him and to bring my score. After dinner I went to the piano. Carvalho was on one side and Madame Carvalho on the other. Both were very pleasant and charming, but the real meaning of this friendliness did not escape me. They had no doubts about what awaited them. Both really loved music and little by little they fell under the spell. Serious attention succeeded the false friendliness. At the end they were enthusiastic. Carvalho declared that he would have the study of the work begun as soon as possible; it was a masterpiece; it would have a great success, but to assure this success, Madame Carvalho must sing the principal part. Now the principal part in _Le Timbre d'Argent_ is that of a dancer and the singer's part is greatly subordinate. To remedy this they decided to develop the part. Barbier invented a pretty situation to bring in the passage _Bonheur est chose legère_, but that wasn't enough. Barbier and Carré racked their brains without finding any solution of the difficulty, for on the stage as elsewhere there are problems that can't be solved. Between times they tried to find a dancer of the first rank. Finally, they found one who had recently left the Opéra, although still at the height of her beauty and talent. And they continued to seek a way to make the part of Hélène worthy of Madame Carvalho. The famous director had one mania. He wanted to collaborate in every work he staged. Even a work hallowed by time and success had to bear his mark; much greater were his reasons for interpolating in a new work. He would announce brusquely that the period or the country in which the action of the work took place must be changed. He tormented us for a long time to make the dancer into a singer on his wife's account. Later, he wanted to introduce a second dancer. With the exception of the prologue and epilogue the action of the piece takes place in a dream, and he took upon himself the invention of the most bizarre combinations. He even proposed to me one day to introduce wild animals. Another time he wanted to cut out all the music with the exception of the choruses and the dancer's part, and have the rest played by a dramatic company. Later, as they were rehearsing Hamlet at the Opéra and it was rumored that Mlle. Nilsson was going to play a water scene, he wanted Madame Carvalho to go to the bottom of a pool to find the fatal bell. Foolishness of this kind took up two years. Finally, we gave up the idea of Mme. Carvalho's coöperation. The part of Hélène was given to beautiful Mlle. Schroeder and the rehearsals began. They were interrupted by the failure of the Théâtre-Lyrique. Shortly afterwards Perrin asked for _Le Timbre d'Argent_ for the Opéra. The adaptation of the work for the large stage at the Opéra necessitated important modifications. The whole of the dialogue had to be set to music and the authors went to work on it. Perrin gave us Madame Carvalho for Hélène and Faure for Spiridion, but he wanted to burlesque the part for the tenor and give it to Mlle. Wertheimber. He wanted to engage her and had no other part for her. This was impossible. After several discussions Perrin yielded to the obstinate refusals of the authors, but I saw clearly from his attitude that he would never play our work. About that time du Locle took over the management of the Opéra-Comique. He saw that Perrin, who was his uncle, had decided not to stage _Le Timbre d'Argent_ and asked me for it. This meant another metamorphosis for the work and new and considerable work for the musician. And this work was by no means easy. Until this time Barbier and Carré had been as close friends as Orestes and Pylades, but now they had a falling out. What one proposed, the other systematically refused. One lived in Paris; the other in the country. I went from Paris to the country and from the country to Paris trying to get these warring brothers to agree. This going to and fro lasted all summer, and then the temporary enemies came to an understanding and became as friendly as ever. We seemed to be nearly at the end of our troubles. Du Locle had found a wonderful dancer in Italy on whom we depended, but the dancer turned out not to be one at all. She was a _mime_, and did not dance. As there was no time to look for another dancer that season du Locle, to keep me patient, had me write with Louis Gallet _La Princesse Jaune_, with which I made my debut on the stage. I was thirty-five! This harmless little work was received with the fiercest hostility. "It is impossible to tell," wrote Jouvin, a much feared critic of the time, "in what key or in what time the overture is written." And to show me how utterly wrong I was, he told me that the public was "a compound of angles and shadows." His prose was certainly more obscure than my music. Finally, a real dancer was engaged in Italy. It seemed as though nothing more could prevent the appearance of the unfortunate _Timbre_. "I can't believe it," I said. "Some catastrophe will put us off again." War came! When that frightful crisis was at an end, the dancer was re-engaged. The parts were read to the artists, and the next day Amédé Achard threw up his rôle, declaring that it belonged to grand opera and was beyond the powers of an opéra-comique tenor. It is well known that he ended his career at the Opéra. Another tenor had to be found, but tenors are rare birds and we were unable to get one. To use the dancer he had engaged du Locle had Gallet and Guiraud improvise a short act, _Le Kobold_, which met with great success. The dancer was exquisite. Then du Locle lost interest in _Le Timbre d'Argent_ and then came the failure of the Opéra-Comique. During all these tribulations I was preparing _Samson_, although I could find no one who even wanted to hear me speak of it. They all thought that I must be mad to attempt a Biblical subject. I gave a hearing of the second act at my house, but no one understood it at all. Without the aid of Liszt, who did not know a note of it, but who engaged me to finish it and put it on at Weimar, _Samson_. would never have seen the light. Afterwards it was refused in succession by Halanzier, Vaucorbeil, and Ritt and Gailhard, who decided to take it only after they had heard it sung by that admirable singer Rosine Bloch. But to return to _Le Timbre d'Argent_. I was again on the street with my score under my arm. About that time Vizentini revived the Théâtre-Lyrique. His first play was _Paul et Virginie_, a wonderful success, and he was preparing for the close of the season another work which he liked. They were kindly disposed to me at the Ministry of Fine Arts and they interested themselves in my misfortunes. So they gave the Théâtre-Lyrique a small subsidy on condition that they play my work. I came to the theatre as one who has meddled and I quickly recognized the discomforts of my position. First, there was a search for a singer; then, for a tenor, and they tried several without success. I found a tenor who, according to all reports, was of the first rank, but, after several days of negotiation, the matter was dropped. I learned later from the artist that the manager intended to engage him for only four performances, evidently planning that the work should be played only four times. The choice finally fell on Blum. He had a fine voice, and was a perfect singer but no actor. Indeed he said he didn't want to be an actor; his ideal was to appear in white gloves. Each day brought new bickerings. They made cuts despite my wishes; they left me at the mercy of the insubordination and rudeness of the stage manager and the ballet master, who would not listen to my most modest suggestions. I had to pay the cost of extra musicians in the wings myself. Some stage settings which I wanted for the prologue were declared impossible--I have seen them since in the _Tales of Hoffman_. Furthermore, the orchestra was very ordinary. There had to be numerous rehearsals which they did not refuse me, but they took advantage of them to spread the report that my music was unplayable. A young journalist who is still alive (I will not name him) wrote two advance notices which were intended to pave the way for the failure of my work. At the last moment the director saw that he had been on the wrong tack and that he might have a success. As they had played fairyland in the theatre in the Square des-Arts-et-Métiers, he had at hand all the needed material to give me a luxurious stage-setting without great expense. Mlle. Caroline Salla was given the part of Hélène. With her beauty and magnificent voice she was certainly remarkable. But the passages which had been written for the light high soprano of Madame Carvalho were poorly adapted for a dramatic soprano. They concluded, therefore, that I didn't know how to write vocal music. In spite of everything the work was markedly successful, the natural result of a splendid performance in which two stars--Melchissedech and Mlle. Adeline Théodore, at present teacher of dancing at the Opéra--shone. Poor Vizentini! His opinion of me has changed greatly since that time. We were made to understand and love each other, so he has become, with years, one of my best and most devoted friends. He first produced my ballet _Javotte_ at the Grand-Théâtre in Lyons, which the Monnaie in Brussels had ordered and then refused. He had dreams of directing the Opéra-Comique and installing _Le Timbre d'Argent_ there. Fate willed otherwise. We have seen how the young French school was encouraged under the Empire. The situation has improved and the old state of affairs has never returned. But we find more than the analogy between the old point of view and the one that was revealed not long ago when the French musicians complained that they were more or less sacrificed in favor of their foreign contemporaries. At bottom it is the same spirit in a modified form. To resume. As everyone knows, the way to become a blacksmith is by working at a forge. Sitting in the shade does not give the experience which develops talent. We should never have known the great days of the Italian theatre, if Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini, and Verdi had had to undergo our régime. If Mozart had had to wait until he was forty to produce his first opera, we should never have had _Don Giovanni_ or _Le Nozze di Figaro_, for Mozart died at thirty-five. The policy imposed on Bizet and Delibes certainly deprived us of several works which would now be among the glories of the repertoire at the Opéra and the Opéra-Comique. That is an irreparable misfortune; one which we cannot sufficiently deplore. CHAPTER V LOUIS GALLET As _Déjanire_, cast in a new form, has again appeared in the vast frame of the Opéra stage, I may be allowed to recall my recollections of my friend and collaborator, Louis Gallet, the diligent and chosen companion of my best years, whose support was so dear and precious to me. Collaboration for some reason unknown to me is deprecated. Opera, it is said, should spring from the brain like Minerva, fully armed. So much the better if such divine intellects can be found, but they are rare and always will be. For dramatic and literary art on the one hand and musical art on the other require different powers, which are not ordinarily found in the same person. I first met Louis Gallet in 1871. Camille du Locle, who was the manager of the Opéra-Comique at the time, could not put on _Le Timbre d'Argent_, and while he waited for better days, which never came, to do that, he offered me a one-act work. He proposed Louis Gallet as my collaborator, although I had not known him until then. "You were made to understand each other," he told me. Gallet was then employed in some capacity at the Beaujon hospital and lived near me in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. We soon formed the habit of seeing each other every day. Du Locle had judged aright. We had the same tastes in art and literature. We were equally averse to whatever is too theatrical and also to whatever is not sufficiently so, to the commonplace and the too extravagant. We both despised easy success and we understood each other wonderfully. Gallet was not a musician, but he enjoyed and understood music, and he criticised with rare good taste. Japan had recently been opened to Europeans. Japan was fashionable; all they talked about was Japan, it was a real craze. So the idea of writing a Japanese piece occurred to us. We submitted the idea to du Locle, but he was afraid of an entirely Japanese stage setting. He wanted us to soften the Japanese part, and it was he, I think, who had the idea of making it half Japanese and half Dutch, the way the slight work _La Princesse Jaune_ was cast. That was only a beginning and in our daily talks we sketched the most audacious projects. The leading concerts of the time did not balk at performing large vocal works, as they too often do to-day to the great detriment of the variety of their programmes. We then thought that we were at the beginning of the prosperity of French oratorio which only needed encouragement to flourish. I read by chance in an old Bible this wonderful phrase, "And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth," and so I proposed to Gallet that we do a Deluge. At first he wanted to introduce characters. "No," I said, "put the Bible narrative into simple verse, and I will do the rest." We know with what care and success he accomplished his delicate task. Meanwhile he gave Massenet the texts for _Marie-Madeleine_ and _Le Roi de Lahore_, and these two works created a great stir in the operatic world. We had dreams of historical opera, for we were quite without the prejudice against this form of drama which afflicts the present school. But I was not _persona grata_ to the managers and I did not know at what door to knock, when one of my friends, Aimé Gros, took the management of the Grand-Théâtre at Lyons and asked me for a work. This was a fine opportunity and we grasped it. We put together, with difficulty but with infinite zest, our historical opera, _Etienne Marcel_, in which Louis Gallet endeavored to respect as far as is possible in a theatrical work the facts of history. Despite illustrious examples to the contrary he did not believe that it was legitimate to attribute to a character who has actually lived acts and opinions that are entirely fanciful. I was in full agreement with him in that as in so many other things. I go even farther and cannot accustom myself to the queer sauces in which legendary characters are often served. It seems to me that the legend is the interesting thing, and not the character, and that the latter loses all its value when the legend which surrounds it is destroyed. But everyone knows that I am a crank. Some time after my _Henri VIII_, in which Vaucorbeil had imposed another collaborator on me, Ritt asked me for a new work. We were looking about for a subject, when Gallet came to my house and timidly, as if fearing a rebuff, proposed _Benvenuto Cellini_. I had thought of that for a long time, and the idea had come to me of putting into musical form that fine drama, which had had its hours of glory, where Mélingue modeled the statue of Hebe before the populace. I, therefore, accepted the suggestion with pleasure. This enterprise brought me in touch with Paul Meurice, whom I had known in my childhood, when he was wooing Mlle. Granger, his first wife and an intimate friend of my mother's. Paul Meurice revealed a secret to me: that the romance _Ascanio_, attributed to Alexander Dumas, had been entirely written by Meurice. The work met with a great success, and out of gratitude, Dumas offered to help Meurice in constructing a drama from the romance, which was to be signed by Meurice alone. So it is easy for one who knows Dumas's dramas to find traces of his handiwork in _Benvenuto Cellini_. It was not particularly easy to make an opera out of the play, and Gallet and I worked together at it with considerable difficulty. We soon saw that we should have to eliminate the famous scene of the casting of the statue. When we reached this point in the play, Benvenuto had already done a good deal of singing, and this scene with its violence seemed certain to exceed the strength of the most valiant artist. In connection with our _Proserpine_, I have been accused of supposing that Vacquerie had genius. It would be too much to say that he had genius, but he certainly had great talent. His prose showed a classical refinement, and his poetry, in spite of fantastic passages which no one could admire, was sonorous in tone, contained precious material, and was both interesting and highly individual. What allured me in _Proserpine_ was the amount of inner emotion there was in the drama, which is very advantageous to the music. Music gives expression to feelings which the characters cannot express, and accentuates and develops the picturesqueness of the piece; it makes acceptable what would not even exist without it. Vacquerie approved highly the convent scene which Gallet invented. This introduced a quiet and peaceful note amidst the violence of the original work. Gallet wrote a sonnet in Alexandrine verse for Sabatino's declaration of his love. I was unable to set this to music, for the twelve feet embarrassed me and prevented my getting into my stride. As I did not know what else to do, I took the sonnet and by main force reduced the verse to ten feet with a cæsura at the fifth foot. I took this to my dear collaborator in fear and trembling, and, as I had feared, he at once fell into the depths of despair. "That was the best thing in my work," he said. "I nursed and caressed that sonnet, and now you have ruined it." In the face of this despair, I screwed up my courage. As I had previously cut down the verse, I now tried lengthening out the music. Then, I sang both versions to the disconsolate poet. And what a miracle! He was altogether reconciled, approved both versions, and did not know which one to choose. We ended with a patchwork. The two quatrains are in verses of ten feet, and the two tiercets in Alexandrine metre. Outside of our work, too, our relations were delightful. We wrote to each other constantly in both prose and verse; we bombarded each other with sonnets; his letters were sometimes ornamented with water colors, for he drew very well and one of his joys was to cover white paper with color. Gallet drew the sketches for the desert in _Le Roi de Lahore_ and the cloister in _Proserpine_. When Madame Adam founded the _Nouvelle Revue_ she offered me the position of musical critic, which I did not think I ought to accept. She did not know where to turn. "Take Gallet," I advised her. "He is an accomplished man of letters. He is not a musician in the sense that he has studied music, but he has the soul of a musician, which is worth much more." Madame Adam followed my advice and found it good. At this period, under the guise of Wagnerism, the wildest theories and the most extravagant assertions were current in musical criticism. Gallet was naturally well poised and independent and he did not do as the rest did. Instead he opposed them, but from unwillingness to give needless offense he displayed marked tact and discretion in his criticisms. This did him no good, however, for it aroused no sentiment of gratitude, and without giving him credit for a literary style that was rare among librettists, his contemporaries received each of his works with a hostility entirely devoid of either justice or mercy. Gallet felt this hostility keenly. He felt that he did not deserve it, since he took so much care in his work and put so much courtesy into his criticism. The blank verse he used in _Thaïs_ with admirable regard for color and harmony, counting on the music to take the place of the rhyme, was not appreciated. This verse was free from assonance and the banalities which it draws into operatic works, but it kept the rhythm and sonorous sound which is far removed from prose. That was the period when there was nothing but praise for Alfred Ernst's gibberish, though that was an insult alike to the French language and the masterpieces he had the temerity to translate. Gallet used the same blank verse in _Déjanire_, although its use here was more debatable, but he handled it with surprising skill. Now that this text has been set to music, it shows its full beauty. Louis Gallet devoted a large part of his time to administrative duties, for he was successively treasurer and manager of hospitals. Nevertheless he produced works in abundance. He left a record of no less than forty operatic librettos, plays, romances, memoirs, pamphlets, and innumerable articles. I wish I knew what to say about the man himself, his unwearying goodness, his loyalty, his scrupulousness, his good humor, his originality, his continual common sense, and his intellect, alert to everything unusual and interesting. What good talks we used to have as we dined under an arbor in the large garden which was his delight at Lariboisière! I used to take him seeds, and he made amusing botanical experiments with them. He was seriously ill at one period of his life. He was wonderfully nursed by his wife--who was a saint--and he endured prolonged and atrocious sufferings with the patience of a saint. He watched the growth of his fatal disease with a stoicism worthy of the sages of antiquity and he had no illusion about the implacable illness which slowly but surely would result in his premature death. A constantly increasing deafness was his greatest trouble. This cruel infirmity had made frightful progress when, in 1899, the Arènes de Béziers opened its doors for the second time to _Déjanire_. In spite of everything, including his ill health which made the trip very painful, he wanted to see his work once more. He heard nothing, however--neither the artists, the choruses, nor even the applause of the several thousand spectators who encored it enthusiastically. A little later he passed on, leaving in his friends' hearts and at the work-tables of his collaborators a void which it is impossible to fill. [Illustration: The First Performance of _Déjanire_ at Les Arènes de Béziers] CHAPTER VI HISTORY AND MYTHOLOGY IN OPERA Oceans of ink have been spilled in discussing the question of whether the subjects of operas should be taken from history or mythology, and the question is still a mooted one. To my mind it would have been better if the question had never been raised, for it is of little consequence what the answer is. The only things worth while are whether the music is good and the work interesting. But _Tannhauser_, _Lohengrin_, _Tristan_ and _Siegfried_ appeared and the question sprang up. The heroes of mythology, we are told, are invested with a prestige which historical characters can never have. Their deeds lose significance and in their place we have their feelings, their emotions, to the great benefit of the operas. After these works, however, _Hans Sachs_ (Die Meistersinger) appeared, and although he is not mythical at all he is a fine figure nevertheless. But in this case the plot is of little account, for the interest lies mainly in the emotions--the only thing, it appears, which music with its divine language ought to express. It is true that music makes it possible to simplify dramatic action and it gives a chance, as well, for the free expression and play of sentiments, emotions and passions. In addition, music makes possible pantomimic scenes which could not be done otherwise, and the music itself flows more easily under such conditions. But that does not mean that such conditions are indispensable for music. Music in its flexibility and adaptability offers inexhaustible resources. Give Mozart a fairy tale like the _Magic Flute_ or a lively comedy such as _Le Nozze di Figaro_ and he creates without effort an immortal masterpiece. It is a question whether there is any essential difference between history and mythology. History is made up of what probably happened; mythology of what probably did not happen. There are myths in history and history in myths. Mythology is merely the old form of history. Every myth is rooted in truth. And we have to seek for this truth in the fable, just as we try to reconstruct extinct animals from the remains Time has preserved to us. Behind the story of Prometheus we see the invention of fire; behind the loves of Ceres and Triptolemus the invention of the plow and the beginnings of agriculture. The adventures of the Argonauts show us the first attempts at voyages of exploration and the discovery of gold mines. Volumes have been written about the truths behind the fables, and explanations have been found for the strangest facts of mythology, even for the metamorphoses which Ovid described so poetically. Halfway between history and mythology come the sacred writings. Each race has its own. Ours are the Old and New Testament. Many believe that these books are myths; a larger number--the Believers--that they are history, Sacred History, the only true history--the only one about which it is not permitted to express a doubt. If you want a proof of this, recall that not so many years ago a clergyman in the Church of England was censured by his ecclesiastical superiors for daring to say in a sermon that the Serpent in the Garden of Eden was symbolical and not a real creature. And the ecclesiastical authorities were right. The basis of Christianity is the Redemption--the incarnation and sacrifice of God himself to blot out the stain of the first great sin and also to open the Kingdom of Heaven to men. That original sin was Adam's fall, when he followed the example of Eve, a victim of the Serpent's treacherous counsels, and disobeyed the command not to taste the Forbidden Fruit. Eliminate the Garden of Eden, the Serpent, the Forbidden Fruit, and the entire fabric of Christianity crumbles. If we turn to profane history and take any historical work, we find that the facts are told in such a way that they seem to us beyond dispute. But if we see the same facts from the pen of another historian, we no longer recognize them. The reason is that a writer almost never undertakes the task of wrestling with the giant, History, unless he is impelled to do so by a preconceived idea, by a general conception, or a system he wants to establish. And whether he wants to or not, he sees the facts in a light favorable to his preconceived idea, and observes them through prisms which increase or diminish their importance at his will. Then, however great his discernment and however strong his desire to reach the truth, it is doubtful if he ever will. In history, as elsewhere, absolute truth escapes mankind. Louis XIV, Louis XV, Madame de Maintenon, Madame de Pompadour, Louis XVI, even Napoleon and Josephine, so near our own times, are already quasi-mythical characters. The Louis XIII of _Marion de Lorme_ seemed until very lately to be accurate, but recent discoveries show us that he was quite different. Napoleon III reigned only yesterday, but his picture is already painted in different tints. My entire youth was passed in his reign and my recollections represent him neither as the monster depicted by Victor Hugo nor the kind sympathetic sovereign of present-day stories. There has been a great deal of discussion of the causes which brought on the War of 1870. We know all that was said and done during the last days of that crisis, but will anyone ever know what was hidden in the minds of the sovereigns, the ministers, and the ambassadors? Will it ever be known whether the Emperor provoked Gramont or Gramont the Emperor? Did they even know themselves
Conniston, emphatically. "When you've cut your moorings you can make for mid-ocean and see life. It's storm that tries the vessel, Bernard, and you're too good a chap to lie up in port as a dull country squire." Bernard looked round, surprised. It was not usual to hear the light-hearted Dicky moralize thus. He was as sententious as Touchstone, and for the moment Gore, who usually gave advice, found himself receiving it. The two seemed to have changed places. Dick noticed the look and slapped Gore on the back. "I've been seeing life since we parted at Eton, old boy," said he, "and it--the trouble of it, I mean--has hammered me into shape." "It hasn't made you despondent, though." "And it never will," said Conniston, emphatically, "until I meet with the woman who refuses to marry me. Then I'll howl." "You haven't met the woman yet?" "No. But you have. I can see it in the telltale blush. Bless me, old Gore, how boyish you are. I haven't blushed for years." "You hardened sinner. Yes! There is a woman, and she is the cause of my trouble." "The usual case," said the worldly-wise Richard. "Who is she?" "Her name is Alice," said Gore, slowly, his eyes on the damp grass. "A pretty unromantic, domestic name. 'Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?'" "I'm always remembering her," said Gore, angrily. "Don't quote that song, Dick. I used to sing it to her. Poor Alice." "What's her other name?" "Malleson--Alice Malleson!" "Great Scott!" said Conniston, his jaw falling. "The niece of Miss Berengaria Plantagenet?" "Yes! Do you know--?" Here Gore broke off, annoyed with himself. "Of course. How could I forget? Miss Plantagenet is your aunt." "My rich aunt, who could leave me five thousand a year if she'd only die. But I daresay she'll leave it to Alice with the light-brown hair, and you'll marry her." "Conniston, don't be an ass. If you know the story of Miss Malleson's life, you must know that there isn't the slightest chance of her inheriting the money." "Ah, but, you see, Bernard, I don't know the story." "You know Miss Plantagenet. She sometimes talks of you." "How good of her, seeing that I've hardly been in her company for the last ten years. I remember going to "The Bower" when a small boy, and making myself ill with plums in a most delightful kitchen garden. I was scolded by a wonderful old lady as small as a fairy and rather like one in looks--a regular bad fairy." "No! no. She is very kind." "She wasn't to me," confessed Conniston; "but I daresay she will have more respect for me now that I'm the head of the family. Lord! to think of that old woman's money." "Conniston, she would be angry if she knew you had enlisted. She is so proud of her birth and of her connection with the Wests. Why don't you call and tell her--" "No, indeed. I'll do nothing of the sort. And don't you say a word either, Bernard. I'm going to carve out my own fortune. I don't want money seasoned with advice from that old cat." "She is not an old cat!" "She must be, for she wasn't a kitten when I saw her years ago. But about Miss Malleson. Who is she? I know she's Miss Plantagenet's niece. But who is she?" "She is not the niece--only an adopted one. She has been with Miss Plantagenet for the last nine years, and came from a French convent. Miss Plantagenet treats her like a niece, but it is an understood thing that Alice is to receive no money." "That looks promising for me," said Conniston, pulling his mustache, "but my old aunt is so healthy that I'll be gray in the head before I get a cent. So you've fallen in love with Alice?" "Yes," sighed Gore, drawing figures with his cane. "I love her dearly and she loves me. But my grandfather objects. I insisted upon marrying Alice, so he cut me off with a shilling. I expect the money will go to my cousin, Julius Beryl, and, like you, I'll have to content myself with a barren title." "But why is Sir Simon so hard, Gore?" Bernard frowned again. "Do you notice how dark I am?" he asked. "Yes! You have rather an Italian look." "That's clever of you, Dick. My mother was Italian, the daughter of a noble Florentine family; but in England was nothing but a poor governess. My father married her, and Sir Simon--_his_ father--cut him off. Then when my parents died, my grandfather sent for me, and brought me up. We have never been good friends," sighed Bernard again, "and when I wanted to marry Alice there was a row. I fear I lost my temper. You know from my mother I inherit a fearful temper, nor do I think the Gores are the calmest of people. However, Sir Simon swore that he wouldn't have another _mésalliance_ in the family and--" "_Mésalliance?_" "Yes! No one knows who Alice is, and Miss Plantagenet--who does know--won't tell." "You said no one knew, and now you say Miss Plantagenet does," said Conniston, laughing. "You're getting mixed, Bernard. Well, so you and Sir Simon had a row?" "A royal row. He ordered me out of the house. I fear I said things to him I should not have said, but my blood was boiling at the insults he heaped on Alice. And you know Sir Simon is a miser. My extravagance--though I really wasn't very extravagant--might have done something to get his back up. However, the row came off, and I was turned away. I came to town, and could see nothing better to do than enlist, so I have been in the Yeomanry for the last four months, and have managed to reach the rank of corporal. I go out to the war soon." "We'll go together," said Conniston, brightening, "and then when you come back covered with glory, Sir Simon--" "No. He won't relent unless I give up Alice, and that I will not do. What does it matter if Alice is nameless? I love her, and that is enough for me!" "And too much for your grandfather, evidently. But what about that cousin of yours, you used to talk of? Lucy something--" "Lucy Randolph. Oh, she's a dear little girl, and has been an angel. She is trying to soothe Sir Simon, and all through has stood my friend. I made her promise that she would put a lamp in the Red Window when Sir Simon relented--if he ever does relent." Conniston looked puzzled. "The Red Window?" "Ah! You don't know the legend of the Red Window. There is a window of that sort at the Hall, which was used during the Parliamentary wars to advise loyal cavaliers of danger. It commands a long prospect down the side avenue. The story is too long to tell you. But, you see, Conniston, I can't get near the house, and my only chance of knowing if Sir Simon is better disposed towards me is by looking from the outside of the park up to the Red Window. If this shows a red light I know that he is relenting; if not, he is still angry. I have been once or twice to the Hall," said Gore, shaking his head, "but no light has been shown." "What a roundabout way of letting you know things. Can't Lucy write?" Gore shook his head again. "No. You see, she is engaged to Julius, who hates me." "Oh, that Beryl man. He comes in for the money?" "Now that I'm chucked I suppose he will," said Bernard, gloomily; "and I don't want to get poor Lucy into his black books, as he isn't a nice sort of chap. He won't thank her if she tries to bias the old man in my favor. And then there's the housekeeper who doesn't like me--Mrs. Gilroy her name is. She and Julius will both keep Sir Simon's temper alive. I can't write to him, or my letter would be intercepted and destroyed by Mrs. Gilroy. Lucy can't write me because of Julius, so my only chance of knowing if the old man is thinking better of his determination is by watching for the red light. I shall go down again twice before I leave for Africa." "And if you see the red light you won't stick to soldiering?" "Yes, I will. But I'll then walk boldly up to the Hall and tell Sir Simon how sorry I am. But in any case I intend to fight for my country. Alice herself wouldn't ask me to be a coward and leave. I go to the Cape with you, Conniston," said Bernard, rising. "Good old chap," said Conniston, delighted, "you're the only fellow I'd care to chum up with. I have often thought of you since we parted. But you rarely wrote to me." "You were the better correspondent, I admit," said Gore, as they walked across the bridge. "I am ashamed I did not continue our school friendship, as we always were such chums, but--" "The inevitable woman. Ah, Delilah always comes between David and Jonathan." "Don't call Alice by that name!" fired up Gore. "Well, then, I won't. But don't get in a wax. What a fire-brand you are, Gore! Just as fierce as you were at school." "Yes," said Bernard, quieting down. "I only hope my bad temper will not ruin me some day. I tell you, Conniston, when Sir Simon pitched into me I felt inclined to throw something at his head. He was most insulting. I didn't mind what he said about me, but when he began to slang Alice I told him I'd pitch him out of the window if he didn't stop. And I said many other foolish things." "Shouldn't do that. He's an old man." "I know--I know. I was a fool. But you have no idea how readily my temper gets the better of me. I could strangle anyone who said a word against my Alice." "Well, don't strangle me," said Conniston, laughing. "I won't call her Delilah again, I promise you. But about your Red Window business--you needn't go down to the Hall for a week or so." "Why not?" "Because Sir Simon is in town." "Nonsense. He never comes to town." "He has this time. Queerly enough, his lawyers are mine. I saw him at the office and asked who he was. Durham, my lawyer friend, told me." "How long ago was that?" "Three days. I came up on business, and was in plains!" "Plains?" "What! you a soldier and don't know plain clothes are called so. You are an old ass, Bernard. But, I say, I've got digs of a sort hereabouts. Come and dine with me to-night." "But I haven't any dress clothes. I got rid of them, thinking I was going to the Cape sooner." "Then come in khaki. You look A 1 in it. Here's the address," and Conniston hastily scribbled something on his card. "I shall expect you at seven." The two friends parted with a hearty handshake, and Gore walked away feeling happier than he had been. Conniston, gazing after him, felt a tug at his coat. He looked down, and saw a small boy. "Judas," said Conniston, "you young brute! How did you know me?" CHAPTER II SIR SIMON GORE Avarice, according to Byron, is a gentlemanly vice appertaining to old age. It certainly acted like Aaron's rod with Sir Simon, as it swallowed up all his more youthful sins. During the early part of the Victorian epoch, the old man had been a spendthrift and a rake. Now, he never looked agreeably upon a woman, and the prettier they were the more he frowned upon them. As he was close upon eighty, it was not to be wondered at that his blood ran thin and cold; still, he might have retained the courtesy for which he was famous in his hot youth. But he eschewed female society in the main, and was barely civil to his pretty, fascinating niece, who attended to him and bore with his ill-humors. Only Mrs. Gilroy succeeded in extorting civil words from him, but then Mrs. Gilroy was necessary to his comfort, being a capital nurse and as quiet as a cat about the house. Where his own pleasure was concerned Sir Simon could be artful. Long ago he had given up luxury. He never put liquor to his withered lips, he ate only the plainest food, and surrounded himself with merely the bare necessities of life. All his aims were to gather money, to see it increase, to buy land, to screw the last penny out of unwilling tenants, and to pick up a farthing, in whatever mud it might be lying. He never helped the poor, he grudged repairs to the property, he kept Lucy on short commons, and expressed such violent opinions concerning the rector's tithes that the poor man was afraid to come near him. As Sir Simon, like a godless old pagan, never went to church, the absence of the clerical element at the Hall troubled him little. He was a typical miser in looks, being bent, withered and dry. As a young man he had bought, in his spendthrift days, a great number of suits, and these he was wearing out in his old age. The garments, once fashionable, looked queer in the eyes of a younger generation; but Sir Simon minded no one. He was always scrupulously dressed in his antique garb, and looked, as the saying goes, as neat as a new pin. His health was tolerable, although he suffered from rheumatism and a constant cough. Owing to his total abstinence, he was free from gout, but could not have been worse tempered had he indeed suffered, as he assuredly deserved to. With his withered skin, his thin, high nose, his pinched features and his bent form he looked anything but agreeable. When walking he supported himself with an ebony cane, and had been known on occasions to use it on the backs of underlings. From this practice, however, he had desisted, since the underlings, forgetful of the feudal system, brought actions for assault, which resulted in Sir Simon losing money. As the old Baronet said, radical opinions were ruining the country; for why should the lower orders not submit to the stick? It was rarely that this agreeable old gentleman came to town. He lived at the Hall in Essex in savage seclusion, and there ruled over a diminished household with a rod of iron. Mrs. Gilroy, who had been with him for many years, was--outwardly--as penurious as her master, so he trusted her as much as he trusted anyone. What between the grim old man and the silent housekeeper, poor Lucy Randolph, who was only a connection, had a dreary time. But then, as the daughter of Sir Simon's niece, she was regarded as an interloper, and the old man grumbled at having to support poor relations. Bernard he had tolerated as his heir, Lucy he frankly disliked as a caterpillar. Often would he call her this name. As usual, Sir Simon came to town with the least expense to himself, since it agonized him to spend a penny. But an old friend of his, more open-handed than the baronet, had lent him his town house. This was a small residence in a quiet Kensington square, by no means fashionable. The central gardens, surrounded by rusty iron railings, were devoid of flowers and filled with ragged elms and sycamores, suffered to grow amidst rank grass untrimmed and unattended. The roads around were green with weeds, and the houses appeared to be deserted. Indeed, many of them were, as few people cared to live in so dull a neighborhood; but others were occupied by elderly folk, who loved the quietness and retirement. Crimea square--its name hinted at its age--was a kind of backwater into which drifted human derelicts. A few yards away the main thoroughfare roared with life and pulsed with vitality, but the dwellers in the square lived as in the enchanted wood of the sleeping beauty. No. 32 was the house occupied by Sir Simon, and it was distinguished from its neighbors by a coat of white paint. Its spurious, smart air was quite out of keeping with the neighborhood, and Sir Simon made ironical remarks when he saw its attempt at being up-to-date. But the house was small, and, although furnished in a gimcrack way, was good enough for a month's residence. Moreover, since he paid no rent, this enhanced its value in his avaricious eyes. It may be mentioned that the servants of the owner--a cook, a housemaid and a pageboy--had stopped on to oblige Sir Simon, and were ruled over by Mrs. Gilroy, much to their disgust. The housekeeper was by no means a pleasant mistress, and turned their intended holiday into a time of particularly hard work. It was about the servants that Mrs. Gilroy spoke to her master one morning shortly after the occupation of the house. Sir Simon, accurately dressed as usual, and looking like a character out of Dickens as delineated by Phiz, was seated beside a comfortable fire supping a cup of plasmon cocoa, as containing the most nutriment in the least expensive form. While enjoying it, he mentally calculated various sums owing from various tenants about which he had come to see his lawyers. The room was of no great size, on the ground floor, and had but two windows, which looked out on the dreary, untidy gardens. Like the exterior of the house, it had been newly painted and decorated, and was also furnished in a cheap way with chairs and tables, sofas and cabinets attractive to the uneducated eye, but detestable to anyone who could appreciate art. The scheme of color was garish, and, but that the blinds were pulled half-way down, so as to exclude too searching a light, would have jarred on Sir Simon's nerves. Lucy Randolph, who sat reading near the window, shuddered at the newness and veneer of her surroundings and thought regretfully of the lovely, mellow old Hall, where everything was in keeping and hallowed by antiquity. All the same, this too brilliantly-cheap room was cosy and comfortable, bright and cheery, and a pleasing contrast to the foggy, gray, damp weather. Perhaps it was this contrast which its decorator had desired to secure. Mrs. Gilroy, with folded hands, stood at her master's elbow, a tall, thin, silent, demure woman with downcast eyes. Plainly dressed in black silk, somewhat worn, and with carefully-mended lace, she looked like a lady who had seen better days. Her hair, and eyes, and skin, and lips, were all of a drab color, by no means pleasing, and she moved with the stealthy step of a cat. Indeed, the servants openly expressed their opinion that she was one, and she certainly had a somewhat feline look. But, with all her softness and nun-like meekness, an occasional glance from her light eyes showed that she could scratch when necessary. No one knew who she was or where she came from, but she looked like a woman with a history. What that was only she and Sir Simon knew, and neither was communicative. Lucy Randolph hated her, and indeed no love was lost between the two. Mrs. Gilroy looked on Lucy as a pauper living on Sir Simon's charity, and Miss Randolph regarded the silent housekeeper as a spy. Each annoyed the other on every occasion in that skilful way known to the sex. But the war was carried on out of the old man's sight. That autocrat would speedily have put an end to it had they dared to skirmish in his presence. "Well! well! well!" snapped Sir Simon, who talked something like George III. in reiterating his words. "What's the matter? What?" "I have to complain of the housemaid Jane, sir." "Then don't. I pay you to keep the servants quiet, not to bother me with their goings-on. Well! well! well!" somewhat inconsistently, "what's Jane been doing?" "Receiving a follower--a soldier--one of those new young men who are going to the war." "An Imperial Yeoman?" put in Miss Randolph, looking up with interest. "Yes, Miss," responded Mrs. Gilroy, not looking round. "Cook tells me the young man comes nearly every evening, and makes love to Jane!" "What! what!" said the baronet, setting down his cup irritably. "Tell the hussy to go at once. Love?" This in a tone of scorn. "As though I've not had enough worry over that with Bernard. Tell her to go." Mrs. Gilroy shook her head. "We can't dismiss her, sir. She belongs to the house, and Mr. Jeffrey"-- "I'll see him about it later. If he knew he certainly would not allow such things. A soldier--eh--what? Turn him out, Gilroy, turn him out! Won't have it, won't have him! There! you can go." "Will you be out to-day, sir?" "Yes, I go to see my lawyers. Do you think I come to town to waste time, Gilroy? Go away." But the housekeeper did not seem eager to go. She cast a look on Lucy eloquent of a desire to be alone with Sir Simon. That look Lucy took no notice of, although she understood it plainly. She suspected Mrs. Gilroy of hating Julius Beryl and of favoring Bernard. Consequently, all the influence of Mrs. Gilroy would be put forth to help the exiled heir. Lucy was fond of Bernard, but she was engaged to Julius, and, dragged both ways by liking and duty, she was forced to a great extent to remain neutral. But she did not intend to let Mrs. Gilroy have the honor and glory of bringing Bernard back to the Hall. Therefore she kept her seat by the window and her eyes on her book. Mrs. Gilroy tightened her thin lips and accepted defeat, for the moment. A ring at the door gave her an excuse to go. "It's Julius," said Lucy, peeping out. "What does he want?" asked Sir Simon, crossly. "Tell him to wait, Gilroy. I can't see him at once. Lucy, stop here, I want to speak." The housekeeper left the room to detain Mr. Beryl, and Lucy obediently resumed her seat. She was a handsome, dark girl, with rather a high color and a temper to match. But she knew when she was well off and kept her temper in check for fear of Sir Simon turning her adrift. He would have done so without scruple had it suited him. Lucy was therefore astute and assumed a meekness she was far from possessing. Mrs. Gilroy saw through her, but Lucy--as the saying goes--pulled the wool over the old man's eyes. Sir Simon took a turn up and down the room. "What about Bernard?" he asked, abruptly stopping before her. Lucy looked up with an innocent smile. "Dear Bernard!" she said. "Do you know where he is?" asked the baronet, taking no notice of the sweet smile and sweet speech. "No, he has not written to me." "But he has to that girl. You know her?" "Alice! yes, but Alice doesn't like me. She refuses to speak to me about Bernard. You see," said Lucy, pensively, "I am engaged to Julius, and as you have sent Bernard away--" "Julius comes in for my money, is that it?" "Not in my opinion," said Miss Randolph, frankly, "but Alice Malleson thinks so." "Then she thinks rightly." Lucy started at this and colored with surprise at the outspoken speech. "Since Bernard has behaved so badly, Julius shall be my heir. The one can have the title, the other the money. All the same I don't want Bernard to starve. I daresay Julius knows where he is, Lucy. Find out, and then I can send the boy something to go on with." "Oh!" said Lucy, starting to her feet and clasping her hands, "the Red Window,--I mean." "I should very much like to know what you _do_ mean," said Sir Simon, eyeing her. "The Red Window! Are you thinking of that ridiculous old legend of Sir Aymas and the ghost?" "Yes," assented Miss Randolph, "and of Bernard also." "What has he to do with the matter?" "He asked me, if you showed any signs of relenting, to put a light in the Red Window at the Hall. Then he would come back." "Oh!" Sir Simon did not seem to be displeased. "Then you can put the light in the window when we go back in three weeks." "You will forgive him?" "I don't say that. But I want to see him settled in some reputable way. After all," added the old man, sitting down, "I have been hard on the boy. He is young, and, like all fools, has fallen in love with a pretty face. This Miss Malleson--if she has any right to a name at all--is not the bride I should have chosen for Bernard. Now you, my dear Lucy--" "I am engaged to Julius," she interposed quickly, and came towards the fire. "I love Julius." "Hum! there's no accounting for tastes. I think Bernard is the better of the two." "Bernard has always been a trouble," said Lucy, "and Julius has never given you a moment's uneasiness." "Hum," said Sir Simon again, his eyes fixed on the fire. "I don't believe Julius is so good as you make him out to be. Now Bernard--" "Uncle," said Lucy, who had long ago been instructed to call her relative by this name, "why don't you make it up with Bernard? I assure you Julius is so good, he doesn't want to have the money." "And you?" The old man looked at her sharply. "I don't either. Julius has his own little income, and earns enough as an architect to live very comfortably. Let me marry Julius, dear uncle, and we will be happy. Then you can take back Bernard and let him marry dear, sweet Alice." "I doubt one woman when she praises another," said Sir Simon, dryly. "Alice may be very agreeable." "She is beautiful and clever." The baronet looked keenly at Lucy's flushed face, trying to fathom her reason for praising the other woman. He failed, for Miss Randolph's face was as innocent as that of a child. "She is no doubt a paragon, my dear," he said; "but I won't have her marry Bernard. By this time the young fool must have come to his senses. Find out from Julius where he is, and--" "Julius may not know!" "If Julius wants my money he will keep an eye on Bernard." "So as to keep Bernard away," said Lucy, impetuously. "Ah, uncle, how can you? Julius doesn't want the money--" "You don't know that." "Ask him yourself then." "I will." Sir Simon rang the bell to intimate to Mrs. Gilroy that Julius could be shown up. "If he doesn't want it, of course I can leave it to someone else." "To Bernard." "Perhaps. And yet I don't know," fumed Sir Simon. "The rascal defied me! He offered to pitch me out of the window if I said a word against that Alice of his. I want Bernard to marry you--" "I am engaged to Julius." "So you said before," snapped the other. "Well, then, Miss Perry. She is an heiress." "And as plain as Alice is handsome." "What does that matter? She is good-tempered. However, it doesn't matter. I won't be friends with Bernard unless he does what I tell him. He must give up Alice and marry Miss Perry. Try the Red Window scheme when you go back to the Hall, Lucy. It will bring Bernard to see me, as you say." "It will," said Lucy, but by no means willingly. "Bernard comes down at times to the Hall to watch for the light. But I can make a Red Window here." "Bernard doesn't know the house." "I am sure he does," said Lucy. "He has to go to the lawyers for what little money he inherits from his father, and Mr. Durham may have told him you are here. Then if I put the light behind a red piece of paper or chintz, Bernard will come here." "It is all romantic rubbish," grumbled the old man, warming his hands. "But do what you like, child. I want to give Bernard a last chance." At this moment Julius appeared. He was a slim young man with a mild face, rather expressionless. His hair and eyes were brown. He was irreproachably dressed, and did not appear to have much brain power. Also, from the expression of his eyes he was of a sly nature. Finally, Mr. Beryl was guarded in his speech, being quite of the opinion that speech was given to hide thoughts. He saluted his uncle affectionately, kissed Lucy's cheek in a cold way, and sat down to observe what a damp, dull day it was and how bad for Sir Simon's rheumatism. A more colorless, timid, meek young saint it would have been hard to find in the whole of London. "I have brought you some special snuff," he said, extending a packet to his host. "It comes from Taberley's." "Ah, thank you. I know the shop. A very good one! Do you get your cigars there, Julius?" "I never smoke," corrected the good young man, coldly. Sir Simon sneered. "You never do anything manly," he said contemptuously. "Well, why are you here?" "I wish, with your permission, to take Lucy to the theatre on Friday," said Mr. Beryl. "Mrs. Webber is going with me, and she can act as chaperon." "I should think she needed one herself. A nasty, flirting little cat of a woman," said Sir Simon, rudely. "Would you like to go, Lucy?" "If you don't mind, uncle." "Bah!" said the old man with a snarl. "How good you two are. Where is the theatre, Julius?" "Near at hand. The Curtain Theatre." "Ah! That's only two streets away. What is the play?" "_As You Like It_, by--" "By Chaucer, I suppose," snapped the old man. "Don't you think I know my Shakespeare? What time will you call for Lucy?" "At half-past seven in the carriage with Mrs. Webber." "Your own carriage?" "I am not rich enough to afford one," said Julius, smiling. "Mrs. Webber's carriage, uncle. We will call for Lucy and bring her back safely at eleven or thereabouts." "Very good; but no suppers, mind. I don't approve of Mrs. Webber taking Lucy to the Cecil or the Savoy." "There is no danger of that, uncle," said Lucy, delighted at gaining permission. "I hope not," said the old man ungraciously. "You can go, Lucy. I want to speak to Julius." A look, unseen by the baronet, passed between the two, and then Lucy left the room. When alone, Sir Simon turned to his nephew. "Where is Bernard?" he asked. A less clever man than Julius would have fenced and feigned surprise, but this astute young gentleman answered at once. "He has enlisted in the Imperial Yeomanry and goes out to the war in a month." Sir Simon turned pale and rose. "He must not--he must not," he said, considerably agitated. "He will be killed, and then--" "What does it matter?" said Julius coolly--"you have disinherited him--at least, I understand so." "He defied me," shivered the baronet, warming his hands again and with a pale face; "but I did not think he would enlist. I won't have him go to the war. He must be bought out." "I think he would refuse to be bought out now," said Beryl, dryly. "I don't fancy Bernard, whatever his faults, is a coward." "My poor boy!" said Sir Simon, who was less hard than he looked. "It is your fault that this has happened, Julius." "Mine, uncle?" "Yes. You told me about Miss Malleson." "I knew you would not approve of the match," said Julius, quietly. "And you wanted me to cut off Bernard with a shilling--" "Not for my own sake," said Julius, calmly. "You need not leave a penny to me, Sir Simon." "Don't you want the money? It's ten thousand a year." "I should like it very much," assented Beryl, frankly; "but I do not want it at the price of my self-respect." The old man looked at him piercingly, but could learn nothing from his inscrutable countenance. But he did not trust Julius in spite of his meek looks, and inwardly resolved to meet craft by craft. He bore a grudge against this young man for having brought about the banishment of his grandson, and felt inclined to punish him. Yet if Julius did not want the money, Sir Simon did not know how to wound him. Yet he doubted if Julius scorned wealth so much as he pretended; therefore he arranged how to circumvent him. "Very well," he said, "since Bernard has disobeyed me, you alone can be my heir. You will have the money without any loss of your self-respect. Come with me this morning to see Durham." "I am at your service, uncle," said Julius, quietly, although his eyes flashed. "But Bernard?" "We can talk of him later. Come!" The attentive Beryl helped Sir Simon on with his overcoat and wrapped a muffler round his throat. Then he went out to select a special four-wheeler instead of sending the page-boy. When he was absent, Mrs. Gilroy appeared in the hall where Sir Simon waited, and, seeing he was alone, came close to him. "Sir," she said quietly, "this girl Jane has described the young man's looks who comes to see her." "Well! well! well!" "The young man--the soldier," said Mrs. Gilroy, with emphasis--"has come only since we arrived here. Jane met him a week before our arrival, and since we have been in the house this soldier has visited her often." "What has all this to do with me?" asked Sir Simon. "Because she described the looks of the soldier. Miss Randolph says he is an Imperial Yeoman." Sir Simon started. "Has Miss Randolph seen him?" he asked. "No. She only goes by what I said this morning to you. But the description, Sir Simon--" Here Mrs. Gilroy sank her voice to a whisper and looked around--"suits Mr. Gore." "Bernard! Ah!" Sir Simon caught hold of a chair to steady himself. "Why--what--yes. Julius said he was an Imperial Yeoman and--" "And he comes here to see the housemaid," said Mrs. Gilroy, nodding. "To spy out the land," cried the baronet, in a rage. "Do you think that my grandson would condescend to housemaids? He comes to learn how I am disposed--if I am ill. The money--the money--all self--self--self!" He clenched his hand as the front door opened. "Good-bye, Mrs. Gilroy, if you see this Imperial Yeoman, say I am making a new will," and with a sneer Sir Simon went out. Mrs
bring assistance.” “I will wait here till morning, Will. There will be no hardship in that, and I know that you don’t like speaking to anyone.” “I will manage it,” Will said cheerfully. “I will tell John Hammond, and he will go to your uncle and get help.” “Ah, that will do! Most of the men are out, but I dare say there will be two or three at home.” Will ran all the way back to the village, which was more than a mile away. “Tom Stevens is lying at the foot of the cliff, father. I think he has broken his leg, and he has been nearly drowned. Will you go and see his uncle, and get three or four men to carry him home. You know very well it is no use my going to his uncle. He would not listen to what I have to say, and would simply shower abuse upon me.” “I will go,” the old man said. “The boy can’t be left there.” In a quarter of an hour the men started. Will went ahead of them for some distance until he reached the top of the path. “He is down at the bottom,” he said, and turned away. Tom was brought home, and roundly abused by his uncle for injuring himself so that he would be unable to accompany him in his boat for some days. He lay for a week in bed, and was then only able to hobble about with the aid of a stick. When he related how Will had saved him there was a slight revulsion of feeling among the better-disposed boys, but this was of short duration. It became known that a French lugger would soon be on the coast. Will was not allowed to approach the edge of the cliff, being assailed by curses and threats if he ventured to do so. Every care was taken to throw the coast-guard off the scent, but things went badly. There was some sharp fighting, and a considerable portion of the cargo was seized as it was being carried up the cliff. The next day Tom hurried up to Will, who was a short way out on the moor. “You must run for your life, Will. There are four or five of the men who say that you betrayed them last night, and I do believe they will throw you over the cliff. Here they come! The best thing you can do is to make for the coast-guard station.” Will saw that the four men who were coming along were among the roughest in the village, and started off immediately at full speed. With oaths and shouts the men pursued him. The coast-guard station was two miles away, and he reached it fifty yards in front of them. The men stopped, shouting: “You are safe there, but as soon as you leave it we will have you.” “What is the matter, lad?” the sub-officer in charge of the station said. “Those men say that I betrayed them, but you know ’tis false, sir.” “Certainly I do. I know you well by sight, and believe that you are a good young fellow. I have always heard you well spoken of. What makes them think that?” “It is because I would not agree to go on acting as watcher. I did not know that there was any harm in it till Miss Warden told me, and then I would not do it any longer, and that set all the village against me.” “What are you going to do?” “I will stay here to-night if you will let me. I am sure they will keep up a watch for me.” “I will sling a hammock for you,” the man said. “Now we are just going to have dinner, and I dare say you can eat something. You are the boy they call Miss Warden’s pet, are you not?” “Yes, they call me so. She has been very kind to me, and has helped me on with my books.” “Ah, well, a boy is sure to get disliked by his fellows when he is cleverer with his books than they are!” After dinner the officer said: “It is quite clear that you won’t be able to return to the village. I think I have heard that you have no father. Is it not so?” “Yes, he died when I was five years old. He left a little money, and John Hammond took me in and bought a boat with that and what he had saved. I was bound to stay with him until I was fourteen years old, but was soon going to leave him, for he is really too old to go out any longer.” “Have you ever thought of going into the royal navy?” “I have thought of it, sir, but I have not settled anything. I thought of going into the merchant navy.” “Bah! I am surprised at a lad of spirit like you thinking of such a thing. If you have learned a lot you will, if you are steady, be sure to get on in time, and may very well become a petty officer. No lad of spirit would take to the life of a merchantman who could enter the navy. I don’t say that some of the Indiamen are not fine ships, but you would find it very hard to get a berth on one of them. Our lieutenant will be over here in a day or two, and I have no doubt that if I speak to him for you he will ship you as a boy in a fine ship.” “How long does one ship for, sir?” “You engage for the time that the ship is in commission, at the outside for five years; and if you find that you do not like it, at the end of that time it is open to you to choose some other berth.” “I can enter the merchant navy then if I like?” “Of course you could, but I don’t think that you would. On a merchantman you would be kicked and cuffed all round, whereas on a man-of-war I don’t say it would be all easy sailing, but if you were sharp and obliging things would go smoothly enough for you.” “Well, sir, I will think it over to-night.” “Good, my boy! you are quite right not to decide in a hurry. It is a serious thing for a young chap to make a choice like that; but it seems to me that, being without friends as you are, and having made enemies of all the people of your village, it would be better for you to get out of it as soon as possible.” “I quite see that; and really I think I could not do better than pass a few years on a man-of-war, for after that I should be fit for any work I might find to do.” “Well, sleep upon it, lad.” Will sat down on the low wall in front of the station and thought it over. After all, it seemed to him that it would be better to be on a fine ship and have a chance of fighting with the French than to sail in a merchantman. At the end of five years he would be twenty, and could pass as a mate if he chose, or settle on land. He would have liked to consult Miss Warden, but this was out of the question. He knew the men who had pursued him well enough to be sure that his life would not be safe if they caught him. He might make his way out of the station at night, but even that was doubtful. Besides, if he were to do so he had no one to go to at Scarborough; he had not a penny in his pocket, and would find it impossible to maintain himself until Miss Warden returned. He did not wish to appear before her as a beggar. He was still thinking when a shadow fell across him, and, looking up, he saw his friend Tom. “I have come round to see you, Will,” he said. “I don’t know what is to be done. Nothing will convince the village that you did not betray them.” “The thing is too absurd,” Will said angrily. “I never spoke to a coast-guardsman in my life till to-day, except, perhaps, in passing, and then I would do no more than make a remark about the weather. Besides, no one in the village has spoken to me for a month, so how could I tell that the lugger was coming in that night?” “Well, I really don’t think it would be safe for you to go back.” “I am not going back. I have not quite settled what I shall do, but certainly I don’t intend to return to the village.” “Then what are you going to do, Will?” “I don’t know exactly, but I have half decided to ship as a boy on one of the king’s ships.” “I should like to go with you wherever you go, but I should like more than anything to do that.” “It is a serious business, you know; you would have to make up your mind to be kicked and cuffed.” “I get that at home,” Tom said; “it can’t be harder for me at sea than it is there.” “Well, I have not got to decide until to-morrow; you go home and think it over, and if you come in the morning with your mind made up, I will speak to the officer here and ask him if they will take us both.” CHAPTER II IN THE KING’S SERVICE Before morning came Will had thought the matter over in every light, and concluded that he could not do better than join the navy for a few years. Putting all other things aside, it was a life of adventure, and adventure is always tempting to boys. It really did not seem to him that, if he entered the merchant service at once, he would be any better off than he would be if he had a preliminary training in the royal navy. He knew that the man-of-war training would make him a smarter sailor, and he hoped that he would find time enough on board ship to continue his work, so that afterwards he might be able to pass as a mate in the merchant service. Tom Stevens came round in the morning. “I have quite made up my mind to go with you if you will let me,” he said. “I will let you readily enough, Tom, but I must warn you that you will not have such a good look-out as I shall. You know, I have learnt a good deal, and if the first cruise lasts for five years I have no doubt that at the end of it I shall be able to pass as a mate in the merchant service, and I am afraid you will have very little chance of doing so.” “I can’t help that,” Tom said. “I know that I am not like you, and I haven’t learnt things, and I don’t suppose that if I had had anyone to help me it would have made any difference. I know I shall never rise much above a sailor before the mast. If you leave the service and go into a merchantman I will go there with you. It does not matter to me where I am. I felt so before, and of course I feel it all the more now that you have saved my life. I am quite sure you will get on in the world, Will, and sha’n’t grudge you your success a bit, however high you rise, for I know how hard you have worked, and how well you deserve it. Besides, even if I had had the pains bestowed upon me, and had worked ever so hard myself, I should never have been a bit like you. You seem different from us somehow. I don’t know how it is, but you are smarter and quicker and more active. I expect some day you will find out something about your father, and then probably we shall be able to understand the difference between us. At any rate I am quite prepared to see you rise, and I shall be well content if you will always allow me to remain your friend.” Will gratified the sub-officer later by telling him that he had made up his mind to ship on board one of the king’s vessels, and that his friend and chum, Tom Stevens, had made up his mind to go with him. The coxswain looked Tom up and down. “You have the makings of a fine strong man,” he said, “and ought to turn out a good sailor. The training you have had in the fishing-boats will be all in your favour. Well, I will let you know when the lieutenant makes his rounds. I am sure there will be no difficulty in shipping you. Boys ain’t what they were when I was young. Then we thought it an honour to be shipped on board a man-of-war, now most of them seem to me mollycoddled, and we have difficulty in getting enough boys for the ships. You see, we are not allowed to press boys, but only able-bodied men; so the youngsters can laugh in our faces. Most of the crimps get one or two of them to watch the sailors as the boys of the village watch our men, and give notice when they are going to make a raid. I don’t think, therefore, that there is any fear of your being refused, especially when I say that one of you has got into great trouble from refusing to aid in throwing us off the scent when a lugger is due. If for no other reason he owes you a debt for that.” Three days passed. Will still remained at the coast-guard station, and men still hovered near. Tom came over once and said that it had been decided among a number of the fishermen that no great harm should be done to Will when they got him, but that he should be thrashed within an inch of his life. On the third day the coxswain said to Will: “I have a message this morning from the lieutenant, that he will be here by eleven o’clock. If you will write a line to your friend I will send it over by one of the men.” Tom arrived breathless two minutes before the officer. “My eye, I have had a run of it,” he said. “The man brought me the letter just as I was going to start in the boat with my uncle. I pretended to have left something behind me and ran back to the cottage, he swearing after me all the way for my stupidity. I ran into the house, and then got out of the window behind, and started for the moors, taking good care to keep the house in a line between him and me. My, what a mad rage he will be in when I don’t come back, and he goes up and finds that I have disappeared! I stopped a minute to take a clean shirt and my Sunday clothes. I expect, when he sees I am not in the cottage, he will look round, and he will discover that they have gone from their pegs, and guess that I have made a bolt of it. He won’t guess, however, that I have come here, but will think I have gone across the moors. He knows very well how hard he has made my life; still, that won’t console him for losing me, just as I am getting really useful in the boat.” The lieutenant landed from his cutter at the foot of the path leading up to the station. The sub-officer received him at the top, and after a few words they walked up to the station together. “Who are these two boys?” he asked as he came up to them. “Two lads who wish to enter the navy, sir.” “Umph! runaways, I suppose?” “Not exactly, sir. Both of them are fatherless. That one has received a fair education from the daughter of the clergyman of the village, who took a great fancy to him. He has for some years now been assisting in one of the fishing-boats and, as he acknowledges, in the spying upon our men, as practically everyone else in the village does. When, however, Miss Warden told him that smuggling was very wrong, he openly announced his intention of having nothing more to do with it. This has had the effect of making the ignorant villagers think that he must have taken bribes from us to keep us informed of what was going on. In consequence he has suffered severe persecution and has been sent to Coventry. After the fight we had with them the other day they appear to think that there could be no further doubt of his being concerned in the matter, and four men set out after him to take his life. He fled here as his nearest possible refuge, and if you will look over there you will see two men on the watch for him. He had made up his mind to ship as an apprentice on a merchantman, but I have talked the matter over with him, and he has now decided to join a man-of-war.” “A very good choice,” the officer said. “I suppose you can read and write, lad?” “Yes, sir,” Will said, suppressing a smile. “Know a bit more, perhaps?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, if you are civil and well behaved, you will get on. And who is the other one?” “He is Gilmore’s special chum, sir. He has a brute of an uncle who is always knocking him about, and he wants to go to sea with his friend.” “Well, they are two likely youngsters. The second is more heavily built than the other, but there is no doubt as to which is the more intelligent. I will test them at once, and then take them off with me in the cutter and hand them over to the tender at Whitby. Now send four men and catch those two fellows and bring them in here. I will give them a sharp lesson against ill-treating a lad who refuses to join them in their rascally work.” A minute later four of the men strolled off by the cliffs, two in each direction. When they had got out of sight of the watchers, they struck inland, and, making a detour, came down behind them. The fishermen did not take the alarm until it was too late. They started to run, but the sailors were more active and quick-footed, and, presently capturing them, brought them back to the coast-guard station. “So my men,” the lieutenant said sternly, “you have been threatening to ill-treat one of His Majesty’s subjects for refusing to join you in your attempts to cheat the revenue? I might send you off to a magistrate for trial, in which case you would certainly get three months’ imprisonment. I prefer, however, settling such matters myself. Strip them to the waist, lads.” The orders were executed in spite of the men’s struggles and execrations. “Now tie them up to the flag-post and give them a dozen heartily.” As the men were all indignant at the treatment that had been given to Will they laid the lash on heavily, and the execrations that followed the first few blows speedily subsided into shrieks for mercy, followed at last by low moaning. When both had received their punishment, the lieutenant said: “Now you can put on your clothes again and carry the news of what you have had to your village, and tell your friends that I wish I had had every man concerned in the matter before me. If I had I would have dealt out the same punishment to all. Now, lads, I shall be leaving in an hour’s time; if you like to send back to the village for your clothes, one of the men will take the message.” Tom already had all his scanty belongings, but Will was glad to send a note to John Hammond, briefly stating his reasons for leaving, and thanking him for his kindness in the past, and asking him to send his clothes to him by the bearer. An hour and a half later they embarked in the lieutenant’s gig and were rowed off to the revenue cutter lying a quarter of a mile away. Here they were put under the charge of the boatswain. “They have shipped for the service, Thompson,” the lieutenant said. “I think they are good lads. Make them as comfortable as you can.” “So you have shipped, have you?” the boatswain said as he led them forward. “Well, you are plucky young cockerels. It ain’t exactly a bed of roses, you will find, at first, but if you can always keep your temper and return a civil answer to a question you will soon get on all right. You will have more trouble with the other boys than with the men, and will have a battle or two to fight.” “We sha’n’t mind that,” Will said; “we have had to deal with some tough ones already in our own village, and have proved that we are better than most of our own age. At any rate we won’t be licked easily, even if they are a bit bigger and stronger than ourselves, and after all a licking doesn’t go for much anyway. What ship do you think they will send us to, sir?” “Ah, that is a good deal more than I can say! There is a cutter that acts as a receiving-ship at Whitby, and you will be sent off from it as opportunity offers and the ships of war want hands. Like enough you will go off with a batch down to the south in a fortnight or so, and will be put on board some ship being commissioned at Portsmouth or Devonport. A large cutter comes round the coast once a month, to pick up the hands from the various receiving-ships, and as often as not she goes back with a hundred. And a rum lot you will think them. There are jail-birds who have had the offer of release on condition that they enter the navy; there are farm-labourers who don’t know one end of a boat from the other; there are drunkards who have been sold by the crimps when their money has run out; but, Lord bless you, it don’t make much difference what they are, they are all knocked into shape before they have been three months on board. I think, however, you will have a better time than this. Our lieutenant is a kind-hearted man, though he is strict enough in the way of business, and I have no doubt he will say a good word for you to the commander of the tender, which, as he is the senior officer, will go a long way.” The two boys were soon on good terms with the crew, who divined at once that they were lads of mettle, and were specially attracted to Will on account of the persecution he had suffered by refusing to act as the smugglers’ watcher, and also when they heard from Tom how he had saved his life. “You will do,” was the verdict of an old sailor. “I can see that you have both got the right stuff in you. When one fellow saves another’s life, and that fellow runs away and ships in order to be near his friend, you may be sure that there is plenty of good stuff in them, and that they will turn out a credit to His Majesty’s service.” They were a week on board before the cutter finished her trip at Whitby. Both boys had done their best to acquire knowledge, and had learnt the names of the ropes and their uses by the time they got to port. “You need not go on board the depot ship until to-morrow,” the lieutenant said. “I will go across with you myself. I have had my eye upon you ever since you came on board, and I have seen that you have been trying hard to learn, and have always been ready to give a pull on a rope when necessary. I have no fear of your getting on. It is a pity we don’t get more lads of your type in the navy.” On the following morning the lieutenant took them on board the depot and put them under the charge of the boatswain. “You will have to mix with a roughish crew here,” the latter said, “but everything will go smoothly enough when you once join your ship. You had better hand over your kits to me to keep for you, otherwise there won’t be much left at the end of the first night; and if you like I will let you stow yourselves away at night in the bitts forward. It is not cold, and I will throw a bit of old sail-cloth over you; you will be better there than down with the others, where the air is almost thick enough to cut.” “Thank you very much, sir; we should prefer that. We have both been accustomed to sleep at night in the bottom of an open boat, so it will come natural enough to us. Are there any more boys on board?” “No, you are the only ones. We get more boys down in the west, but up here very few ship.” They went below together. “Dimchurch,” the boatswain said to a tall sailor-like man, “these boys have just joined. I wish you would keep an eye on them, and prevent anyone from bullying them. I know that you are a pressed man, and that we have no right to expect anything of you until you have joined your ship, but I can see that for all that you are a true British sailor, and I trust to you to look after these boys.” “All right, mate!” the sailor said. “I will take the nippers under my charge, and see that no one meddles with them. I know what I had to go through when I first went to sea, and am glad enough to do a good turn to any youngsters joining.” “Thank you! Then I will leave them now in your charge.” “This is your first voyage, I suppose,” the sailor said as he sat down on the table and looked at the boys. “I see by your togs that you have been fishing.” “Yes, we both had seven or eight years of it, though of course we were of no real use till the last five.” “You don’t speak like a fisherman’s boy either,” the man said. “No. A lady interested herself in me and got me to work all my spare time at books.” “Well, they will be of no use to you at present, but they may come in handy some day to get you a rating. I never learnt to read or write myself or I should have been mate long ago. This is my first voyage in a ship of war. Hitherto I have always escaped being pressed when I was ashore, but now they have caught me I don’t mind having a try at it. I believe, from all I hear, that the grub and treatment are better than aboard most merchantmen, and the work nothing like so hard. Of course the great drawback is the cat, but I expect that a well-behaved man doesn’t often feel it.” The others had looked on curiously when the lads first came down, but they soon turned away indifferently and took up their former pursuits. Some were playing cards, others lying about half-asleep. Two or three who were fortunate enough to be possessed of tobacco were smoking. In all there were some forty men. When the evening meal was served out the sailor placed one of the boys on each side of him, and saw that they got their share. “I must find a place for you to sleep,” he said when they had finished. “The officer who brought us down has given us permission to sleep on deck near the bitts.” “Ah, yes, that is quite in the bows of the ship! You will do very well there, much better than you would down here. I will go up on deck and show you the place. How is it that he is looking specially after you?” “I believe Lieutenant Jones of the _Antelope_ was good enough to speak to the officer in command of this craft in our favour.” “How did you make him your friend?” Will told briefly the story of his troubles with the smugglers. The sailor laughed. “Well,” he said, “you must be a pretty plucky one to fly in the face of a smuggling village in that way. You must have known what the consequence would be, and it is not every boy, nor every man either, if it comes to that, that would venture to do as you did.” “It did not seem to me that I had any choice when I once found out that it was wrong.” The sailor laughed again. “Well, you know, it is not what you could call a crime, though it is against the law of the land, but everyone does a bit of smuggling when they get the chance. Lord bless you! I have come home from abroad when there was not one of the passengers and crew who did not have a bit of something hidden about him or his luggage—brandy, ’baccy, French wines, or knick-knacks of some sort. Pretty nigh half of them got found out and fined, but the value of the things got ashore was six or eight times as much as what was collared.” “Still it was not right,” Will persisted. “Oh, no! it was not right,” the sailor said carelessly, “but everyone took his chance. It is a sort of game, you see, between the passengers and crew on one side and the custom-house officers on the other. It was enough to make one laugh to see the passengers land. Women who had been as thin as whistles came out as stout matrons, owing to the yards and yards of laces and silk they had wound round them. All sorts of odd places were choke-full of tobacco; there were cases that looked like baggage, but really had a tin lining, which was full of brandy. It was a rare game for those who got through, I can tell you, though I own it was not so pleasant for those who got caught and had their contraband goods confiscated, besides having to pay five times the proper duty. As a rule the men took it quietly enough, they had played the game and lost; but as for the women, they were just raging tigers. “For myself, I laughed fit to split. If I lost anything it was a pound or two of tobacco which I was taking home for my old father, and I felt that things might have been a deal worse if they had searched the legs of my trousers, where I had a couple of bladders filled with good brandy. You see, young ’un, though everyone knows that it is against the law, no one thinks it a crime. It is a game you play; if you lose you pay handsomely, but if you win you get off scot-free. I think the lady who told you it was wrong did you a very bad service, for if she lived near that village she must have known that you would get into no end of trouble if you were to say you would have nothing more to do with it. And how is it”—turning to Tom—“that you came to go with him? You did not take it into your head that smuggling was wrong too?” “I never thought of it,” Tom said, “and if I had been told so should only have answered that what was good enough for others was good enough for me. I came because Will came. We had always been great friends, and more than once joined to thrash a big fellow who put upon us. But the principal thing was that a little while ago he saved me from drowning. There was a deep cut running up to the foot of the cliffs. One day I was running past there, when I slipped, and in falling hurt my leg badly. I am only just beginning to use it a bit now. The pain was so great that I did not know what I was doing; I rolled off the rock into the water. My knee was so bad that I could not swim, and the rock was too high for me to crawl out. I had been there for some time, and was beginning to get weak, when Will came along on the top of the cliff and saw me. He shouted to me to hold on till he could get down to me. Then he ran half a mile to a place where he was able to climb down, and tore back again along the shore till he reached the cut, and then jumped in and swam to me. There was no getting out on either side, so he swam with me to the end of the cut and landed me there. I was by that time pretty nigh insensible, but he half-helped and half-carried me till we got to the point of the cliff where he had come down. Then he left me and ran off to the village to get help. So you will understand now why I should wish to stick to him.” “I should think so,” the sailor said warmly. “It was a fine thing to do, and I would be glad to do it myself. Stick to him, lad, as long as he will let you. I fancy, from the way he speaks and his manner, that he will mount up above you, but never you mind that.” “I won’t, as long as I can keep by him, and I hope that soon I may have a chance of returning him the service he has done me. He knows well enough that if I could I would give my life for him willingly.” “I think,” the sailor said to Will seriously, “you are a fortunate fellow to have made a friend like that. A good chum is the next best thing to a good wife. In fact, I don’t know if it is not a bit better. Ah, here comes the boatswain with a bit of sail-cloth, so you had better lie down at once. We shall most of us turn in soon down below, for there is nothing to pass the time, and I for one shall be very glad when the cutter comes for us.” The boys chatted for some time under cover of the sail-cloth. They agreed that things were much better than they could have expected. The protection of the boatswain was a great thing, but that of their sailor friend was better. They hoped that he would be told off to the ship in which they went, for they felt sure that he would be a valuable friend to them. The life on board the cutter, too, had been pleasant, and altogether they congratulated themselves on the course they had taken. “I have no doubt we shall like it very much when we are once settled. They look a rough lot down below, and that sentry standing with a loaded musket at the gangway shows pretty well what sort of men they are. I am not surprised that the pressed men should try to get away, but I have no pity for the drunken fellows who joined when they had spent their last shilling. Our fishermen go on a spree sometimes, but not often, and when they do, they quarrel and fight a bit, but they always go to work the next morning.” “That is a different thing altogether, for I heard that in the towns men will spend every penny they have, give up work altogether, and become idle, lazy loafers.” Two days later, to the great satisfaction of the boys, a large cutter flying the white ensign was seen approaching the harbour. No doubt was entertained that she was the receiving-ship. This was confirmed when the officer in charge of the depot-ship was rowed to the new arrival as soon as the anchor was dropped. A quarter of an hour later he returned, and it became known that the new hands were to be taken to Portsmouth. The next morning two boats rowed alongside. Will could not but admire the neat and natty appearance of the crew, which formed a somewhat striking contrast to the slovenly appearance of the gang on the depot-ship. A list of the new men was handed over to the officer in charge, and these were at once transferred to the big cutter. Here everything was exquisitely clean and neat. The new-comers were at once supplied with uniforms, and told off as supernumeraries to each watch. Will and Tom received no special orders, and were informed that they were to make themselves generally useful. Beyond having to carry an occasional message from one or other of the midshipmen, or boatswain, their duties were of the lightest kind. They helped at the distribution of the messes, the washing of the decks, the paring of the potatoes for dinner, and other odd jobs. When not wanted they could do as they pleased, and Will employed every spare moment in gaining what information he could from his friend Dimchurch, or from any sailor he saw disengaged and wearing a look that invited interrogation. “You seem to want to know a lot all at once, youngster,” one said. “I have got to learn it sooner or later,” Will replied, “and it is just as well to learn as much as I can while I have time on my hands. I expect I shall get plenty to do when I join a ship at Portsmouth. May I go up the rigging?” “That you may not. You don’t suppose that His Majesty’s ships are intended to look like trees with rooks perched all over them? You will be taught all that in due time. There is plenty to learn on deck, and when you know all that, it will be time enough to think of going aloft. You don’t want to become a Blake or a Benbow all at once, do you?” “No,” Will laughed, “it will be time to think of that in another twenty years.” The sailor broke into a roar of laughter. “Well, there is nothing like flying high, young ’un; but there is no reason why in time you should not get to
near the top. As Sharpeyes’ hands began to move down the spindle, Strongarm began again to twirl at the top. Sometimes they were awkward in moving their hands. Then the spindle did not work so well, so they tried to keep the same time with their hands. They worked together best when they sang as they worked, and the singing kept them from getting tired. Once when they stopped to look at their work, Strongarm picked up a strap that was on the ground. He carelessly wound it once around the spindle, keeping hold of one end of the strap. Then Sharpeyes picked up the other end of the strap, and Strongarm jerked the end that he held. [Illustration: _A strap drill weighted with stones_] They did this a few minutes just in play, but at last they began to do it in earnest. Strongarm placed the end of the spindle in the shallow hole that he had made in the sabre tooth. Then he and Sharpeyes began to twirl the spindle with the strap. But there was nothing to keep the spindle from falling. So they tried to hold it with a piece of wood. They made a shallow hole in the wood to fit the top of the spindle. Then while Strongarm and Sharpeyes pulled the strap, a boy held the spindle in place. Soon the spindle was working steadily, and the hole was becoming deeper and deeper. When they had bored a hole halfway through the tooth, they began to bore from the opposite side. All the Cave-men came up to see them work. As soon as the hole was made, Strongarm took a cord of braided sinew and hung the sabre tooth at his side. [Illustration: _A bow drill_] After that he always wore the trophy. Sometimes he used it for a knife and sometimes for a saw. Every one who saw this rare trophy knew that Strongarm was a brave man. THINGS TO DO _Make a collection of things that you can use for awls._ _Find something that will do for the spindle of a drill._ _Show how to drill a hole by twirling the spindle or awl on the thigh._ _Show how one person can twirl an upright spindle._ _Show how two persons can twirl an upright spindle with their hands._ _Show how they can do it with a strap. Can you think why stones are sometimes bound to the shaft of a drill?_ _Look at the picture of the bow drill and see if you can make one._ _Draw a picture of the Cave-men working upon their trophies._ IX THINGS TO THINK ABOUT Think of as many tools and weapons as you can that the Cave-men found ready to use. What could they find to make into tools and weapons? Why did they not use large boards and metals? Why did they put handles on their tools and weapons? Think of as many ways as you can of fastening handles to tools and weapons. _Making New Weapons_ The Cave-men liked their new home. They were able to work better when they were warm than when they were shivering with the cold. They found more time to improve their tools and weapons. One day they began to make weapons of the bones they found in the cave. [Illustration: “_They made them into weapons_”] Many of the bones were good for clubs. Others were good for handles of weapons. After the Cave-men had sorted out the bones that they wanted, they went to hunt stones along the margin of the stream. They wanted stones that were good for hammers. So they hunted for smooth, round stones that were hard to break. They wanted other stones for knives, spears, and axes. So they hunted for stones that broke with a sharp edge. They struck the sharp edges with hammer stones to see if they crumbled under a heavy blow. When they found stones that crumbled they threw them away, but they kept the stones that were tough and strong. When they had chipped off a few large flakes they carried the rough stones to the cave. There they made them into weapons. They did not chip the hammer stones, but fastened handles to them. Some handles were long bones that were large at the joint. Other handles were made of forked branches. [Illustration: “_They chipped off a few large flakes_”] [Illustration: “_Some handles were long bones that were large at the joint_”] Sharpeyes found a hammer stone with a groove around the center and fastened a handle to it. He cut a slender branch of a sapling and bent it around the groove. Then he twisted the ends and held them close, while he bound them with rawhide. The Cave-men liked this hammer so well that they made other hammers like it. They made long handles for their knife points, so that they became real spears. They put handles on the spearheads in many ways. Sometimes they bound the spearhead between the split end of a long stick, and covered the binding with pitch. [Illustration: “_They put handles on the spearheads in many ways_”] [Illustration: “_The Cave-men liked this hammer so well that they made other hammers like it_”] Sometimes they drove the spearhead into the soft part of a large horn. Sometimes they drove it into the pith of a branch. They always tried to bind the handle so that it would stay, for they sometimes got hurt when a handle came off. [Illustration: “_Other handles were made of forked branches_”] THINGS TO DO _Find stones that will make good hammers. Tell why they are good for hammers._ _Find stones that are good for knives, axes, and spears. Tell why they are good for such weapons._ _Find bones, horns, or sticks that are good for handles. See if you can put handles on hammers or spears._ _Notice how handles are put on tools nowadays._ _Show as many ways as you can of fastening handles to tools and weapons._ _See if you can find a tool whose handle is fastened in a way that the Cave-men did not use._ _Tell where you can find the best stones for tools and weapons._ _Why do people not use stones for tools nowadays?_ _Find out what small stones are used for to-day._ _How do you use stones?_ X THINGS TO THINK ABOUT What do you think the women were doing while the men were working on their weapons? What tools and weapons did the women need? Do you think that they made them themselves? _How the Women Dressed Sabre-tooth’s Skin_ While the men worked upon their trophies and weapons, the women, too, were working. [Illustration: _How the women dressed skins_] They had gone to the river banks to get stones to make into tools. They were ready to dress old Sabre-tooth’s skin, so they hunted for stones that would make good scrapers. They shaped the stones by chipping them with hammer stones, but they did not make handles for them. If the rough edges hurt their hands, they wrapped the scraper in a piece of skin. When the scrapers were ready, they found a smooth spot where they stretched out Sabre-tooth’s skin. Then they made little slits all around the edge and drove little pegs through them. They scraped off thin shavings from the inner side, but they were careful not to spoil the skin by cutting through it. [Illustration: _One side of scraper_] [Illustration: _Opposite side of scraper_] When they had a smooth surface, they rubbed it with fat so as to make it soft. Sometimes they chewed the hard parts to make them soft. When the skin was smooth and soft, they dried it in the sun. Then they took it into the cave. Sabre-tooth’s skin was too large to wear every day, but Strongarm wore it on feast days. THINGS TO DO _Show how the women stretched the skin upon the ground._ _Show how they scraped it and rubbed it with fat._ _Find a stone or a shell that will make a good scraper._ _Get a skin at the meat market and see if you can dress it._ _Name things that you wear that are made of fur._ _Name things made of fur that men and women wear._ _Find as many other uses of fur as you can._ _Where does the fur that we use come from? Ask some one to tell you how it is prepared for use._ _Can you think why fur is more expensive now than it used to be? Why should we be careful about killing wild animals?_ _Name the things you have that are made of leather._ _Visit a tannery and ask some one to tell you about it._ _Draw a picture of the women dressing Sabre-tooth’s skin._ XI THINGS TO THINK ABOUT Why did the Cave-men need more clothing than the Tree-dwellers had? Do you know whether they had cloth? What could they use instead of cloth? How do you think they sewed? How many ways do you know of lacing up your shoes? What did the Cave-men use instead of scissors? What do you think they used for needles and thread? _How the Cave-men Made Clothing_ During the summer the Cave-men did not wear much clothing. They dressed about the same as the Tree-dwellers. When they were in the cave, they did not need clothing, for it was always warm in the cave. But, as winter came on, they were cold when they went out to hunt. Sometimes they tried to keep warm by running, or by swinging their arms. The skins that they wore for trophies also helped them to keep warm. But, as it grew colder, they began to wear larger skins. If they could not find a skin that was large enough, they pieced small skins together. Where we would use scissors, they used a stone knife. Where we would use a needle, they used a bone awl. They trimmed off the ragged edges and punched holes in the places they wished to sew. Then they laced them together with sinew thread, as you lace up your shoes. They fastened the garment over the shoulder by tying it with strong straps. Sometimes they fastened their garments with buckles. [Illustration: _A bone awl_] [Illustration: _A buckle_] These skin garments covered only part of the body, but they helped the Cave-men keep warm and strong. THINGS TO DO _See if you can find things such as the Cave-men used to make a dress for your doll._ _Find as many ways as you can of sewing by using an awl instead of a needle._ _See if you can find sinew or tough roots and grasses for making thread._ XII THINGS TO THINK ABOUT Can you think why the Cave-men lived in clans instead of in families as we do? How many men do you think lived in the fire clan? How many women? How many children? What could the children do to help their fathers and mothers? How do you think the children played? _The Fire Clan_ Ever since the Tree-dwellers had learned to use fire, there had been a fire clan on the wooded hills. There were many other clans, too. Some of them were named after wild animals, and some were named after plants. All the people lived in clans, for it was the best way to live at that time. There were enough men in each clan to protect it from wild beasts. There were enough women to do the household work. There were many children, too. But there was room enough in the cave for all, and they lived as if they were one large family. Each child in the clan was given a name, which was changed when he became full grown. The name of one of the girls was Brighteyes. Brighteyes called every man in the cave her father, and she called every woman her mother. All of the children were her brothers and sisters. She did not have any cousins. She did not have any uncles and aunts. [Illustration: _A skin cradle_] At that time no one spoke of uncles and aunts. Brighteyes used to play with her brothers and sisters, and she used to work, too. She tried to do what the grown people did. Sometimes the children went with their mothers to hunt for roots and nuts. But sometimes they had to stay at home to take care of the babies. Brighteyes liked to play with the babies. She would hunt for bright and shining playthings, which she strung on spruce root or a kind of tough grass. Then she would dangle them over the heads of the babies and watch them as they laughed and crowed. [Illustration: “_They rocked the babies in their cradles_”] Sometimes the girls made rattles of gourds, which the babies played with for a long time. Sometimes they carried the babies on their backs until they got very tired. Then they put them in their skin cradles again and hung them on the branches of a tree. While they rocked the babies in their cradles they sang them little lullabies. THINGS TO DO _Make some playthings for a baby that you know._ _See if you can make a skin cradle for your doll._ XIII THINGS TO THINK ABOUT How do you think the Cave-men spent the winter? What kind of food do you think they ate? What do you eat in the winter? Why could not the Cave-men have as many kinds of food as you have? Do you think you could stand it to go out in the cold dressed as the Cave-men were dressed? _How the Cave-men Spent the Winter_ Perhaps you think that the Cave-men spent a dreary winter. It might be dreary for you if you had to spend it that way. But the Cave-men knew nothing about such homes as we have. They lived in the very best home that anybody had at that time. That is why they were satisfied. When the weather was pleasant they went out to hunt, but they never had to go far. The wild animals were not yet afraid of men, and so they did not try to get away. By using their spears and stone axes, the Cave-men got plenty of meat to eat. But they got so hungry for something green, that they ate the green moss that they found in the stomach of the reindeer. Sometimes they ate the inner bark of trees. Sometimes they found nuts in squirrels’ nests, but most of the food that they ate was meat. In the coldest weather they did not have even meat, for it was not safe to hunt in the biting cold. They stayed in the cave for days at a time without a taste of food. Sometimes they were so hungry that they chewed hard skins, and they even sucked dry bones. But they managed in some way to live through these cold days, until the weather became warmer again. THINGS TO DO _Think of the coldest and stormiest day you have ever seen, and draw a picture showing how it looked._ _Tell a story of what Brighteyes did during a cold day._ _Tell a story of what the Cave-men did one pleasant day in the winter._ XIV THINGS TO THINK ABOUT Have you ever noticed the bark of a birch tree? Do you know what birch bark is used for? Why is birch bark better to make into baskets and boats than the bark of other trees? Can you think of a way of taking birch bark from a tree without splitting the bark? Have you ever seen bark that has been mended? What do you think the Cave-men used birch bark for? Why do you not have the right to peel birch bark from any tree that you see? Are there any birch trees that you do have the right to take bark from? _What the Cave-men Got from the Birch Trees_ When the snow began to melt, the Cave-men were glad; for it was warm enough to leave the cave. They spent their days on the wooded hills where many birch trees grew. All the Cave-men liked to go to these trees. They liked to peel off the silvery white bark that hung from the older trees in strips. They wanted to get the tough inner bark that was under the smooth outer coat. They chewed the inner bark the way you chew gum. Sometimes they bit into the bark with their teeth, and sometimes they cut it with a stone knife. Then they peeled it off in strips with their fingers. At first they peeled it carelessly and gave no thought to the width of the strips. But one day Firekeeper peeled off a wide strip. There were narrow strips for her to eat, so she kept the wide strip for a while. One day she began to shape it with her hands and to fold in the edges. After trying for a long time, she made it into a basket. She did not cut the bark, but shaped it by making folds in each corner and fastening them with sharp thorns. She gathered winter buds into the basket and carried them home to the cave. [Illustration: “_This basket did not last very long_”] In a few days the thorns fell out, so Firekeeper cut the bark and sewed the folds. But this basket did not last very long. The edges split and Firekeeper’s basket was soon worn out. One morning she went with the other women to get birch bark for another basket. They had no trouble in cutting the bark and in loosening the edges with their fingers. But as soon as they tried to peel it, the bark began to split. So they tried to press evenly with their fingers against the under side, but still many strips split. Finally Firekeeper picked up the rib of a deer and pressed it under the loosened edge. Then she carefully pulled the ends of the rib and peeled off a large piece of bark. Then all the women tried to peel bark by using the rib of a deer. They carried the bark that they peeled to the cave, and sat down by the fire to make baskets. Nobody was satisfied with Firekeeper’s basket, for the corners were rough and the edges split. They found that by cutting into the sides of the bark they could fold it so as to make smoother corners. So they cut and folded the bark, then sewed the folds with spruce root. Then they hunted for something to bind around the edge, so as to strengthen the basket. Some of the women made rims of tough grass, and some used willow stems. These were the first rims they had ever made, but the women always put rims on their baskets after that. [Illustration: “_The women always put rims on their baskets after that_”] THINGS TO DO _If there is a birch tree growing in your neighborhood, go and see it._ _Notice whether it is a good shade tree. Does the bark on the young trees hang in strips as it does on the older trees?_ _If you have the right to do so, peel off enough birch bark to make a basket, a boat, or a frame._ _When you visit a museum, find as many things as you can that are made of birch bark._ _Find pictures of things that are made of birch bark._ XV THINGS TO THINK ABOUT When the snow melts in the spring, what happens to the river or stream in your neighborhood? How does the melted snow get to the river? Have you ever heard of rivers that are under the ground? If such a river-bed were dry, what would it be? Have you ever seen a ravine? Is it anything like a cave? If the roof of a cave fell in, what would the cave become? If the sides of a ravine became worn down, what would it become? Think of ways in which the cave might be flooded when the snow melts in the spring. Do you know anything about the floods that we have nowadays? _The Flood_ Winter was almost gone. The air was getting mild and soft. The snow was beginning to melt, and the river was rising. All along the banks there were mountains of snow and ice. Huge masses of floating ice were carried along by the current. The Cave-men were watching the swiftly rising river. They feared that there might be a flood. The children were playing in the melting snow and wading in the water. Sharpeyes had just come from the ravine. This ravine was usually dry in summer, but in winter it was filled with snow. Now it was a deep, dark stream, with black and threatening water. All the ravines were pouring their waters into the river, which was rising rapidly. Where the banks were steep the river was narrow. There the water was deep, and large masses of snow and ice were carried along by the strong current. At the drinking-place the banks were low. There the river was wider and the current was not so deep and strong. Small masses of snow and ice were carried along by the current, but the larger masses became lodged on the bed of the stream. In this way the river was forming a dam. [Illustration: “_All day long the Cave-men watched the river_”] All day long the Cave-men watched the river, but at night they went back to the cave. There were dark clouds in the sky; so Firekeeper covered the fire with ashes, and they got ready for the night. All but Firekeeper were soon asleep. As she kept watch that night there was something that troubled her. It was not the roaring river. It was not the pouring rain. She had heard those sounds before. It was a sound that was new to her, and she wondered what it meant. It seemed to come from deep down in the cave, and sounded like rumbling water. She did not wish to frighten the clan, so she let them all sleep. She listened again. She still heard the roaring of the river. She still heard the pouring rain. Below it all she heard that strange muffled sound. It was coming nearer and nearer. She felt water trickling over her bed of moss and leaves. At first she thought it was the rain. She peered into the darkness, but saw nothing. She felt of the running water. It was coming from the cave. Then she called Strongarm. He quickly roused the people, and they hurried out of the cave. A moment more and it would have been too late. The water rushed up from the dark narrow passage and out through the mouth of the cave. There was water everywhere. The frightened Cave-men ran for the hills. They climbed trees, where they stayed through the long dark night. When the rays of the sun streaked the sky in the east, the Cave-men were still up in the trees. They looked out over the valley, but they scarcely knew the place. All the land except the hills was covered by the flood. All the thickets had disappeared. [Illustration: _The Flood_] Only the tops of the trees stood above the water. The river was dammed with snow and ice. The water dashed against the dam, but it could not break its way through. It was forced back; it was overflowing the banks; it was flooding the land. Nobody had breakfast that morning. Nobody had a mouthful to eat all that day. All the Cave-men watched the flood from the trees. They heard the ice when it began to crack. They heard the roaring of the river as it beat upon the dam. They knew that it was wearing its way through. About midday there was a loud crash. The Cave-men then knew that the dam was broken. They saw the water pour through the dam and sweep everything in its path. Before sunset the flood was gone. Most of the ice and snow had been swept away. The Cave-men were glad to come down from the trees, and they hurried to see what had happened to their cave. [Illustration] THINGS TO DO _Notice a river or brook after a heavy rain or the melting of the snow._ _See if you can tell where the current of the river is._ _Notice the difference in the current in the wide and narrow parts of the river._ _Find the parts of the valley that would be flooded if the river overflowed its banks._ _Notice the little holes that are made in the ground by the rain._ _See if you can find a ravine made by the rain._ _Model a small river valley showing some of the work of the rain._ _Change the little pot-holes so as to make them into caves._ _Change the caves so as to make them into ravines._ _Change a ravine so as to make a valley._ _Tell a story of how a pot-hole became a valley._ _Show in your sand box the way the cave was flooded._ XVI THINGS TO THINK ABOUT Do you think that the Cave-men can live in their cave when they go back? What do you think they lost in the flood? What did the Cave-men prize most of all? Can you tell why they thought the fire was alive? _What the Cave-men Lost in the Flood_ The Cave-men were anxious about their home, so they hastened to the cave. Their bare feet left clear tracks in the layer of fine mud. But they were too anxious about the fire to think of such things as tracks in the mud. They did not know much about the fire or the flood, but they thought that they both were alive. They feared that the fire had been driven away. Yet they hoped to find a few live coals that they could kindle into a flame. But not even a stone was left on the spot to mark the place where the fireplace had been. Everything had been swept away by the flood. Firekeeper searched in vain for a spark. When at last she knew that the fire was gone, she wrung her hands and wailed. The people joined in Firekeeper’s cries until Strongarm comforted them. Strongarm hoped that their neighbors still had fire and sent Sharpeyes to find out. Then he crept through the mouth of the cave to see what had happened there. The water had gone down in the large cavern, but it was still rumbling below. The floor of the cave was wet and slippery and covered with fine mud. Slowly Strongarm groped his way through the dark and damp cavern. He wanted to find Sabre-tooth’s skin. He moved his hands over the floor of the cave and into each corner and crevice. But no trace of the skin could he find. Then the Cave-men hunted for their weapons, but they, too, had been carried away. The Cave-men had lost all they had in the flood. When they saw Sharpeyes coming they went to meet him, but he brought them no good news. There was no more fire on the wooded hills. There was sorrow everywhere. THINGS TO DO _Show what the Cave-men did when they went back to the cave. Draw a picture of them._ _Tell a story of what you think happened at one of the other caves._ XVII THINGS TO THINK ABOUT How do you think the Cave-men will get fire? Where can fire be found without making it? If the Cave-men had seen a place where there were natural fires, do you think they would remember where it was? What do you think happened to the wild animals during the flood? _The Council_ The cave was too damp to live in for several days after the flood. The Cave-men camped at its mouth and waited for it to dry. Not an animal came near them during that time. Many animals had been drowned in the flood. Many more had escaped to higher lands. The Cave-men were safe for a time, but they had to live on bark and roots. They knew that the animals would return, so they began to make new weapons. It was well that they made them as soon as they did, for the animals soon came back. At first the animals kept away from the cave, but when they no longer saw the fire, they began to come up nearer. Then the Cave-men were frightened. Some of them wanted to leave the cave and live as the Tree-dwellers had lived. But Strongarm wanted to stay in the cave and to keep all the people in the clan together. He knew that they could not keep together unless they had fire again. So he talked with the bravest men, and they decided to hold a council. Messengers were sent to call all the people to a meeting at the fire clan’s cave. By midday they had assembled. They had not held many councils. They were not used to obeying. At first there was great confusion, and loud and boisterous talking. Each had a plan of his own. But soon they became more quiet and began to listen to the wisest men. All eyes were soon turned toward an old man who had been their mightiest hunter. But now he was getting old, and his strength was beginning to fail. The old man arose in the silence, and thus he spoke to his people: [Illustration: “_The old man arose in the silence, and thus he spoke to his people_”] “Many years have we lived on these hillsides. Our fathers lived here before us. They lived many years without fire. They lived, and they worked, and they waited. The fire god came among them. He gave them burning branches. He told them they were his children. He asked them to feed him daily. We have always tried to obey him. We have always fed him daily. He has given us his protection. But the water god was angry. He came in all his fury. He drove us from our dwelling. He rushed upon our fire god. He drove him far away. Now the water god has gone. Our fire god may return. He may be near us now. We must search till we surely find him. We must bring him home again.” For a moment the old man was silent. He waited for some one to speak. At last Strongarm asked the old man if he knew where the fire god now lived. To this the old man responded: “That no one knows truly. I have heard that he dwells in the dry wood. But he seems not to hear our voices. I have heard that he dwells in the mountains. Our fathers have been to the mountains. They were hunting the musk sheep and the marmot. One night they were tired and hungry. They were seeking a place of refuge. They saw a light in the distance. They ran to it. They found the flaming fire. It gave them its protection. I have heard there are dark chasms. I have heard that the fire springs from them. I think I can find these mountains. But my steps are getting feeble. I need the help of a young man. Who will go on this long hard journey?” Then Sharpeyes stepped forward and said that he would go with the old man. Everybody knew that Sharpeyes was a brave young man, and so it was agreed that he should be the one to go. THINGS TO DO _Think of the old man as he talked to the people._ _Think of Sharpeyes as he stepped forward and said that he would go._ _Draw one of these pictures._ _Play holding a council._ XVIII THINGS TO THINK ABOUT When you go traveling where do you stay at night? Where do you think the old man and Sharpeyes stayed? Where do you get food when you travel? Where would the Cave-men get food? What new clothing do you need before you go? What clothing do you think the Cave-men needed to get ready to go? Did the Cave-men need anything that you do not need? Why? _The Way to the Fire Country_ The Cave-men knew that the fire country was far away from the wooded hills. They knew that the journey was a dangerous one, and that the old man and Sharpeyes might never return. So they did all they could to help them prepare for the journey. Much of the way was rocky, and they knew their bare feet would blister. So they tried to make something to protect their feet. [Illustration: _How the sandal was put on the foot_] They had not yet learned to make shoes and stockings, but they had often bound grass about their feet. They had even learned to make braided grass sandals. They braided the grass, then sewed it. Braided grass sandals were good while they lasted, but they soon wore out. So they made new sandals of thick, tough skin. [Illustration: “_They made new sandals of thick, tough skin_”] Part of the way was through thorny thickets, so they needed something to protect their legs. They had not yet learned to make trousers or leggins, but they cut strips of skin to wind around their legs. Skins that were worn as clothing by day served as blankets by night. They dared not burden themselves with food, but trusted to killing game on the way. So they were careful to take their best spears and axes. They knew that their weapons might break, so they took tools and straps to mend them. [Illustration: _The tool bag for carrying tools and straps_] Everybody helped the old man and Sharpeyes. Everybody arose early the morning they went away. Sharpeyes and the old man put on their new clothing, and the women brought them food to eat. As the old man slung a hollow gourd over his shoulder, Firekeeper came up and gave him a skin bag. Nobody knew what the bag was for until Firekeeper showed them that it would hold water. The old man was glad to take it and leave the hollow gourd at home. Then the old man and Sharpeyes took leave of their kinfolk and started out on the long journey. THINGS TO DO _Make a pair of sandals of something that you can find growing out of doors._ _Draw a picture of the Cave-men helping the old man and Sharpeyes get ready._ [Illustration: “_Then the old man and Sharpeyes took leave of their kinfolk and started out on the long journey_”] XIX THINGS TO THINK ABOUT How do you think Firekeeper made the skin water bag? Where did the Cave-men get water? When did they need to carry water? Name as many things as you can that they could use for carrying water before they learned to make water vessels. What do we use to carry water? Where does the water that we drink come from? _How Firekeeper Made the Skin Water Bag_ The Cave-men watched the old man and Sharpeyes until they passed out of sight. Then the men went out on the hills, while the women and children dug roots near the cave. After a while they climbed a large oak tree and sat on its strong spreading branches. Then Brighteyes asked Firekeeper about the bag, and how she happened to make it. All the children liked to hear Firekeeper talk. She often told them of the brave deeds of their fathers. She often showed them how to make useful things that their mothers knew how to make. They all wanted to hear her now, so they tried to get close beside her. She told them of Sharptooth and the way she got water by drinking it from the stream. Then she told how Bodo got fire, and how people began to live around the fireplace. As soon as people learned to work together, they often went far away from the stream. When the women went berrying far from the river, they became thirsty before they got home. One day they found water in a hollow gourd that had been filled by the rain. They took the gourd with them when they went home and used it for carrying water. Afterward they learned to hollow out gourds and to use them for water vessels. Sometimes they left part of the vine on the gourd and used the vine for a carrying strap. [Illustration: “_They wove a coarse netting of vines and covered the gourd with that_”] When they pulled the gourd off from the vine, they had to make a strap for the gourd. Sometimes the gourd broke and spilled the water, so they wove a coarse netting of wild vines and covered it with that. All the children had seen gourd water vessels and had used them many times. Brighteyes had learned to make the netting, so Firekeeper did not stop to show how it was made. All were anxious to hear about the skin bag, so Firekeeper went on with her story. She told them that she had been thinking of the dry rocky country for several days. She knew that the men must pass through it, and she feared they would die of thirst. She was afraid to trust the gourd water vessel at such a time as this. She wished the gourd were as strong as skin. Then she wondered if she could make a skin bag. The next
story of Phryxus, and the golden fleece. It seems to me plain beyond doubt, that there were no such persons as the Grecian Argonauts: and that the expedition of Jason to Colchis was a fable. After having cleared my way, I shall proceed to the sources, from whence the Grecians drew. I shall give an account of the Titans, and Titanic war, with the history of the Cuthites and antient Babylonians. This will be accompanied with the Gentile history of the Deluge, the migration of mankind from Shinar, and the dispersion from Babel. The whole will be crowned with an account of antient Egypt; wherein many circumstances of high consequence in chronology will be stated. In the execution of the whole there will be brought many surprising proofs in confirmation of the Mosaic account: and it will be found, from repeated evidence, that every thing, which the divine historian has transmitted, is most assuredly true. And though the nations, who preserved memorials of the Deluge, have not perhaps stated accurately the time of that event; yet it will be found the grand epocha, to which they referred; the highest point to which they could ascend. This was esteemed the renewal of the world; the new birth of mankind; and the ultimate of Gentile history. Some traces may perhaps be discernable in their rites and mysteries of the antediluvian system: but those very few, and hardly perceptible. It has been thought, that the Chaldaic, and Egyptian accounts exceed not only the times of the Deluge, but the æra of the world: and Scaliger has accordingly carried the chronology of the latter beyond the term of his artificial[6] period. But upon inquiry we shall find the chronology of this people very different from the representations which have been given. This will be shewn by a plain and precise account, exhibited by the Egyptians themselves: yet overlooked and contradicted by the persons, through whose hands we receive it. Something of the same nature will be attempted in respect to Berosus; as well as to Abydenus, Polyhistor, and Appollodorus, who borrowed from him. Their histories contained matter of great moment: and will afford some wonderful discoveries. From their evidence, and from that which has preceded, we shall find, that the Deluge was the grand epocha of every antient kingdom. It is to be observed, that when colonies made anywhere a settlement, they ingrafted their antecedent history upon the subsequent events of the place. And as in those days they could carry up the genealogy of their princes to the very source of all, it will be found, under whatever title he may come, that the first king in every country was Noah. For as he was mentioned first in the genealogy of their princes, he was in aftertimes looked upon as a real monarch; and represented as a great traveller, a mighty conqueror, and sovereign of the whole earth. This circumstance will appear even in the annals of the Egyptians: and though their chronology has been supposed to have reached beyond that of any nation, yet it coincides very happily with the accounts given by Moses. In the prosecution of my system I shall not amuse the Reader with doubtful and solitary extracts; but collect all that can be obtained upon the subject, and shew the universal scope of writers. I shall endeavour particularly to compare sacred history with profane, and prove the general assent of mankind to the wonderful events recorded. My purpose is not to lay science in ruins; but instead of desolating to build up, and to rectify what time has impaired: to divest mythology of every foreign and unmeaning ornament, and to display the truth in its native simplicity: to shew, that all the rites and mysteries of the Gentiles were only so many memorials of their principal ancestors; and of the great occurrences to which they had been witnesses. Among these memorials the chief were the ruin of mankind by a flood; and the renewal of the world in one family. They had symbolical representations, by which these occurrences were commemorated: and the antient hymns in their temples were to the same purpose. They all related to the history of the first ages, and to the same events which are recorded by Moses. Before I can arrive at this essential part of my inquiries, I must give an account of the rites and customs of antient Hellas; and of those people which I term Amonians. This I must do in order to shew, from whence they came: and from what quarter their evidence is derived. A great deal will be said of their religion and rites: also of their towers, temples, and Puratheia, where their worship was performed. The mistakes likewise of the Greeks in respect to antient terms, which they strangely perverted, will be exhibited in many instances: and much true history will be ascertained from a detection of this peculiar misapplication. It is a circumstance of great consequence, to which little attention has been paid. Great light however will accrue from examining this abuse, and observing the particular mode of error: and the only way of obtaining an insight must be by an etymological process, and by recurring to the primitive language of the people, concerning whom we are treating. As the Amonians betook themselves to regions widely separated; we shall find in every place where they settled, the same worship and ceremonies, and the same history of their ancestors. There will also appear a great similitude in the names of their cities and temples: so that we may be assured, that the whole was the operation of one and the same people. The learned Bochart saw this; and taking for granted, that the people were Phenicians, he attempted to interpret these names by the Hebrew language; of which he supposed the Phenician to have been a dialect. His design was certainly very ingenious, and carried on with a wonderful display of learning. He failed however: and of the nature of his failure I shall be obliged to take notice. It appears to me, as far as my reading can afford me light, that most antient names, not only of places, but of persons, have a manifest analogy. There is likewise a great correspondence to be observed in terms of science; and in the titles, which were of old bestowed upon magistrates and rulers. The same observation may be extended even to plants, and minerals, as well as to animals; especially to those which were esteemed at all sacred. Their names seem to be composed of the same, or similar elements; and bear a manifest relation to the religion in use among the Amonians, and to the Deity which they adored. This deity was the Sun: and most of the antient names will be found to be an assemblage of titles, bestowed upon that luminary. Hence there will appear a manifest correspondence between them, which circumstance is quite foreign to the system of Bochart. His etymologies are destitute of this collateral evidence; and have not the least analogy to support them. In consequence of this I have ventured to give a list of some Amonian terms, which occur in the mythology of Greece, and in the histories of other nations. Most antient names seem to have been composed out of these elements: and into the same principles they may be again resolved by an easy, and fair evolution. I subjoin to these a short interpretation; and at the same time produce different examples of names and titles, which are thus compounded. From hence the Reader will see plainly my method of analysis, and the basis of my etymological inquiries. As my researches are upon subjects very remote, and the histories to which I appeal, various; and as the truth is in great measure to be obtained by deduction, I have been obliged to bring my authorities immediately under the eye of the Reader. He may from thence be a witness of the propriety of my appeal; and see that my inferences are true. This however will render my quotations very numerous, and may afford some matter of discouragement, as they are principally from the Greek authors. I have however in most places of consequence endeavoured to remedy this inconvenience, either by exhibiting previously the substance of what is quoted, or giving a subsequent translation. Better days may perhaps come; when the Greek language will be in greater repute, and its beauties more admired. As I am principally indebted to the Grecians for intelligence, I have in some respects adhered to their orthography, and have rendered antient terms as they were expressed by them. Indeed I do not see, why we should not render all names of Grecian original, as they were exhibited by that people, instead of taking our mode of pronunciation from the Romans. I scarce know any thing, which has been of greater detriment to antient history than the capriciousness of writers in never expressing foreign terms as they were rendered by the natives. I shall be found, however, to have not acted up uniformly to my principles, as I have only in some instances copied the Grecian orthography. I have ventured to abide by it merely in some particular terms, where I judged, that etymology would be concerned. For I was afraid, however just this method might appear, and warrantable, that it would seem too novel to be universally put in practice. My purpose has been throughout to give a new turn to antient history, and to place it upon a surer foundation. The mythology of Greece is a vast assemblage of obscure traditions, which have been transmitted from the earliest times. They were described in hieroglyphics, and have been veiled in allegory: and the same history is often renewed under a different system, and arrangement. A great part of this intelligence has been derived to us from the Poets; by which means it has been rendered still more extravagant, and strange. We find the whole, like a grotesque picture, blazoned high, and glaring with colours, and filled with groups of fantastic imagery, such as we see upon an Indian screen; where the eye is painfully amused; but whence little can be obtained, which is satisfactory, and of service. We must, however, make this distinction, that in the allegorical representations of Greece, there was always a covert meaning, though it may have escaped our discernment. In short, we must look upon antient mythology as being yet in a chaotic state, where the mind of man has been wearied with roaming over the crude consistence without ever finding out one spot where it could repose in safety. Hence has arisen the demand, [Greek: pou stôi], which has been repeated for ages. It is my hope, and my presumption, that such a place of appulse may be found, where we may take our stand, and from whence we may have a full view of the mighty expanse before us; from whence also we may descry the original design, and order, of all those objects, which by length of time, and their own remoteness, have been rendered so confused and uncertain. * * * * * PREFACE TO THE THIRD VOLUME OF THE QUARTO EDITION, BEGINNING AT VOL. iv. PAGE 1. IN THIS EDITION. Through the whole process of my inquiries, it has been my endeavour, from some plain and determinate principles, to open the way to many interesting truths. And as I have shewn the certainty of an universal Deluge from the evidences of most nations, to which we can gain access, I come now to give an history of the persons who survived that event; and of the families which were immediately descended from them. After having mentioned their residence in the region of Ararat, and their migration from it, I shall give an account of the roving of the Cuthites, and of their coming to the plains of Shinar, from whence they were at last expelled. To this are added observations upon the histories of Chaldea and Egypt; also of Hellas, and Ionia; and of every other country which was in any degree occupied by the sons of Chus. There have been men of learning who have denominated their works from the families, of which they treated; and have accordingly sent them into the world under the title of Phaleg, Japhet, and Javan. I might, in like manner, have prefixed to mine the name either of Cuth, or Cuthim; for, upon the history of this people my system chiefly turns. It may be asked, if there were no other great families upon earth, besides that of the Cuthites, worthy of record: if no other people ever performed great actions, and made themselves respectable to posterity. Such there possibly may have been; and the field is open to any who may choose to make inquiry. My taking this particular path does not in the least abridge others from prosecuting different views, wherever they may see an opening. As my researches are deep, and remote, I shall sometimes take the liberty of repeating what has preceded; that the truths which I maintain may more readily be perceived. We are oftentimes, by the importunity of a persevering writer, teazed into an unsatisfactory compliance, and yield a painful assent; but, upon closing the book, our scruples return, and we lapse at once into doubt and darkness. It has therefore been my rule to bring vouchers for every thing, which I maintain; and though I might upon the renewal of my argument refer to another volume, and a distant page, yet I many times choose to repeat my evidence, and bring it again under immediate inspection. And if I do not scruple labour and expense, I hope the reader will not be disgusted by this seeming redundancy in my arrangement. What I have now to present to the public, contains matter of great moment, and should I be found to be in the right, it will afford a sure basis for the future history of the world. None can well judge either of the labour, or utility of the work, but those who have been conversant in the writings of chronologers, and other learned men, upon these subjects, and seen the difficulties with which they were embarrassed. Great, undoubtedly, must have been the learning and perspicuity of a Petavius, Perizonius, Scaliger, Grotius, and Le Clerc; also of an Usher, Pearson, Marsham, and Newton. Yet it may possibly be found at the close, that a feeble arm has effected what those prodigies in science have overlooked. Many, who have finished their progress, and are determined in their principles, will not perhaps so readily be brought over to my opinion. But they who are beginning their studies, and passing through a process of Grecian literature, will find continual evidences arise; almost every step will afford fresh proofs in favour of my system. As the desolation of the world by a deluge, and the renewal of it in one person, are points in these days particularly controverted; many, who are enemies to Revelation, upon seeing these truths ascertained, may be led to a more intimate acquaintance with the Scriptures: and such an insight cannot but be productive of good. For our faith depends upon historical experience: and it is mere ignorance, that makes infidels. Hence it is possible, that some may be won over by historical evidence, whom a refined theological argument cannot reach. An illness, which some time ago confined me to my bed, and afterwards to my chamber, afforded me, during its recess, an opportunity of making some versions from the poets whom I quote, when I was little able to do any thing of more consequence. The translation from Dionysius was particularly done at that season, and will give the reader some faint idea of the original, and its beauties. I cannot conclude without acknowledging my obligations to a most worthy and learned[7] friend for his zeal towards my work; and for his assistance both in this, and my former publication. I am indebted to him not only for his judicious remarks, but for his goodness in transcribing for me many of my dissertations, without which my progress would have been greatly retarded. His care likewise, and attention, in many other articles, afford instances of friendship which I shall ever gratefully remember. * * * * * RADICALS. [Greek: Peithous d' esti keleuthos, alêtheiê gar opêdei.]----PARMENIDES. The materials, of which I purpose to make use in the following inquiries, are comparatively few, and will be contained within a small compass. They are such as are to be found in the composition of most names, which occur in antient mythology: whether they relate to Deities then reverenced; or to the places, where their worship was introduced. But they appear no where so plainly, as in the names of those places, which were situated in Babylonia and Egypt. From these parts they were, in process of time, transferred to countries far remote; beyond the Ganges eastward, and to the utmost bounds of the Mediterranean west; wherever the sons of Ham under their various denominations either settled or traded. For I have mentioned that this people were great adventurers; and began an extensive commerce in very early times. They got footing in many parts; where they founded cities, which were famous in their day. They likewise erected towers and temples: and upon headlands and promontories they raised pillars for sea-marks to direct them in their perilous expeditions. All these were denominated from circumstances, that had some reference to the religion, which this people professed; and to the ancestors, whence they sprung. The Deity, which they originally worshipped, was the Sun. But they soon conferred his titles upon some of their ancestors: whence arose a mixed worship. They particularly deified the great Patriarch, who was the head of their line; and worshipped him as the fountain of light: making the Sun only an emblem of his influence and power. They called him Bal, and Baal: and there were others of their ancestry joined with him, whom they styled the Baalim. Chus was one of these: and this idolatry began among his sons. In respect then to the names, which this people, in process of time, conferred either upon the Deities they worshipped, or upon the cities, which they founded; we shall find them to be generally made up of some original terms for a basis, such as Ham, Cham, and Chus: or else of the titles, with which those personages were, in process of time, honoured. These were Thoth, Men or Menes, Ab, El, Aur, Ait, Ees or Ish, On, Bel, Cohen, Keren, Ad, Adon, Ob, Oph, Apha, Uch, Melech, Anac, Sar, Sama, Samaïm. We must likewise take notice of those common names, by which places are distinguished, such as Kir, Caer, Kiriath, Carta, Air, Col, Cala, Beth, Ai, Ain, Caph, and Cephas. Lastly are to be inserted the particles Al and Pi; which were in use among the antient Egyptians. Of these terms I shall first treat; which I look upon as so many elements, whence most names in antient mythology have been compounded; and into which they may be easily resolved: and the history, with which they are attended, will, at all times, plainly point out, and warrant the etymology. HAM or CHAM. The first of the terms here specified is Ham; at different times, and in different places, expressed Cham, Chom, [8]Chamus. Many places were from him denominated Cham Ar, Cham Ur, Chomana, Comara, Camarina. Ham, by the Egyptians, was compounded Am-On, [Greek: Amôn] and [Greek: Ammôn]. He is to be found under this name among many nations in the east; which was by the Greeks expressed Amanus, and [9]Omanus. Ham, and Cham are words, which imply heat, and the consequences of heat; and from them many words in other languages, such as [10][Greek: Kauma] Caminus, Camera, were derived. Ham, as a Deity, was esteemed the [11]Sun: and his priests were styled Chamin, Chaminim, and Chamerim. His name is often found compounded with other terms, as in Cham El, Cham Ees, Cam Ait: and was in this manner conferred both on persons and places. From hence Camillus, Camilla, Camella Sacra, Comates, Camisium, [12]Camirus, Chemmis, with numberless other words, are derived. Chamma was the title of the hereditary [13]priestess of Diana: and the Puratheia, where the rites of fire were carried on, were called Chamina, and Chaminim, whence came the Caminus of the Latines. They were sacred hearths, on which was preserved a perpetual fire in honour of Cham. The idols of the Sun called by the same [14]name: for it is said of the good king Josiah, that _they brake down the altars of Baalim--in his presence; and the Chaminim_ (or images of Cham) _that were on high above them, he cut down_. They were also styled Chamerim, as we learn from the prophet [15]Zephaniah. Ham was esteemed the Zeus of Greece, and Jupiter of Latium. [16][Greek: Ammous, ho Zeus, Aristotelei.] [17][Greek: Ammoun gar Aiguptioi kaleousi ton Dia.] Plutarch says, that, of all the Egyptian names which seemed to have any correspondence with the Zeus of Greece, Amoun or Ammon was the most peculiar and adequate. He speaks of many people, who were of this opinion: [18][Greek: Eti de tôn pollôn nomizontôn idion par' Aiguptiois onoma tou Dios einai ton Amoun, ho paragontes hêmeis Ammôna legomen.] From Egypt his name and worship were brought into Greece; as indeed were the names of almost all the Deities there worshipped. [19][Greek: Schedon de kai panta ta ounomata tôn Theôn ex Aiguptou elêluthe es tên Hellada.] _Almost all the names of the Gods in Greece were adventitious, having been brought thither from Egypt._ CHUS. Chus was rendered by the Greeks [Greek: Chusos], Chusus; but, more commonly, [Greek: Chrusos]: and the places denominated from him were changed to [Greek: Chruse], Chruse; and to Chrusopolis. His name was often compounded [20]Chus-Or, rendered by the Greeks [Greek: Chrusôr], Chrusor, and Chrusaor; which, among the Poets, became a favourite epithet, continually bestowed upon Apollo. Hence there were temples dedicated to him, called Chrusaoria. Chus, in the Babylonish dialect, seems to have been called Cuth; and many places, where his posterity settled, were styled [21]Cutha, Cuthaia, Cutaia, Ceuta, Cotha, compounded [22]Cothon. He was sometimes expressed Casus, Cessus, Casius; and was still farther diversified. Chus was the father of all those nations, styled [23]Ethiopians, who were more truly called Cuthites and Cuseans. They were more in number, and far more widely extended, than has been imagined. The history of this family will be the principal part of my inquiry. CANAAN. Canaan seems, by the Egyptians and Syrians, to have been pronounced Cnaan: which was by the Greeks rendered Cnas, and Cna. Thus we are told by Stephanus Byzantinus, that the antient name of Phenicia was Cna. [Greek: Chna, houtos hê Phoinikê ekaleito. to ethnikon Chnaios.] The same is said by Philo Biblius, from Sanchoniathon. [24][Greek: Chna tou prôtou metonomasthentos Phoinikos.] And, in another place, he says, that Isiris, the same as Osiris, was the brother to Cna. [25][Greek: Isiris--adelphos Chna]; the purport of which is conformable to the account in the Scriptures, that the Egyptians were of a collateral line with the people of Canaan; or, that the father of the Mizräim and the Canaanites were brothers. MIZRAIM. This person is looked upon as the father of the Egyptians: on which account one might expect to meet with many memorials concerning him: but his history is so veiled under allegory and titles, that no great light can be obtained. It is thought, by many learned men, that the term, Mizräim, is properly a plural; and that a people are by it signified, rather than a person. This people were the Egyptians: and the head of their family is imagined to have been, in the singular, Misor, or Metzor. It is certain that Egypt, by Stephanus Byzantinus, is, amongst other names, styled [Greek: Muara], which, undoubtedly, is a mistake for [Greek: Musara], the land of Musar, or Mysar. It is, by [26]Eusebius and Suidas, called Mestraia; by which is meant the land of Metzor, a different rendering of Mysor. Sanchoniathon alludes to this person under the name of [27][Greek: Misôr], Misor; and joins him with Sydic: both which he makes the sons of the Shepherds Amunus and Magus. Amunus, I make no doubt, is Amun, or Ham, the real father of Misor, from whom the Mizräim are supposed to be descended. By Magus, probably, is meant Chus, the father of those worshippers of fire, the Magi: the father, also, of the genuine Scythæ, who were styled Magog. The Canaanites, likewise, were his offspring: and, among these, none were more distinguished than those of Said, or Sidon; which, I imagine, is alluded to under the name of Sydic. It must be confessed, that the author derives it from Sydic, justice: and, to say the truth, he has, out of antient terms, mixed so many feigned personages with those that are real, that it is not possible to arrive at the truth. NIMROD. It is said of this person, by Moses, that he was the son of Cush. [28]_And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth: he was a mighty hunter before the Lord: wherefore it is said, even as Nimrod, the mighty hunter before the Lord. And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel._ His history is plainly alluded to under the character of Alorus, the first king of [29]Chaldea; but more frequently under the title of Orion. This personage is represented by Homer as of a gigantic make; and as being continually in pursuit of wild [30]beasts. The Cuthite Colonies, which went westward, carried with them memorials of this their ancestor; and named many places from him: and in all such places there will be found some peculiar circumstances, which will point out the great hunter, alluded to in their name. The Grecians generally styled him [31][Greek: Nebrôd], Nebrod: hence places called by his name are expressed Nebrod, Nebrodes, Nebrissa. In Sicily was a mountain Nebrodes, called by Strabo in the plural [32][Greek: ta Nebrôde orê]. It was a famous place for hunting; and for that reason had been dedicated to Nimrod. The poet Gratius takes notice of its being stocked with wild beasts: [33]Cantatus Graiis Acragas, victæque fragosum Nebrodem liquere feræ. And Solinus speaks to the same purpose: [34]Nebrodem damæ et hinnuli pervagantur. At the foot of the mountain were the warm baths of Himera. The term [Greek: Nebros], Nebros, which was substituted by the Greeks for Nimrod, signifying a fawn, gave occasion to many allusions about a fawn, and fawn-skin, in the Dionusiaca, and other mysteries. There was a town Nebrissa, near the mouth of the Bætis in Spain, called, by Pliny, Veneria; [35]Inter æstuaria Bætis oppidum Nebrissa, cognomine Veneria. This, I should think, was a mistake for Venaria; for there were places of that name. Here were preserved the same rites and memorials, as are mentioned above; wherein was no allusion to Venus, but to Nimrod and Bacchus. The island, and its rites, are mentioned by Silius Italicus. [36]Ac Nebrissa Dionusæis conscia thyrsis, Quam Satyri coluere leves, redimitaque sacrâ Nebride. The Priests at the Bacchanalia, as well as the Votaries, were habited in this manner. [37]Inter matres impia Mænas Comes Ogygio venit Iaccho, Nebride sacrâ præcincta latus. Statius describes them in the same habit. [38]Hic chelyn, hic flavam maculoso Nebrida tergo, Hic thyrsos, hic plectra ferit. The history of Nimrod was, in great measure, lost in the superior reverence shewn to Chus, or Bacchus: yet, there is reason to think, that divine honours were of old paid to him. The family of the Nebridæ at [39]Athens, and another of the same name at Cos, were, as we may infer from their history, the posterity of people, who had been priests to Nimrod. He seems to have been worshipped in Sicily under the names of Elorus, Belorus, and Orion. He was likewise styled [40]Belus: but as this was merely a title, and conferred upon other persons, it renders his history very difficult to be distinguished. TITLES OF THE DEITY. Theuth, Thoth, Taut, Taautes, are the same title diversified; and belong to the chief god of Egypt. Eusebius speaks of him as the same as Hermes. [41][Greek: Hon Aiguptioi men ekalesan Thôuth, Alexandreis de Thôth, Hermên de Hellênes metephrasan.] From Theuth the Greeks formed [Greek: THEOS]; which, with that nation, was the most general name of the deity. Plato, in his treatise, named Philebus, mentions him by the name of [42][Greek: Theuth]. He was looked upon as a great benefactor, and the first cultivator of the vine. [43][Greek: Prôtos Thôth edaê drepanên epi botrun ageirein.] He was also supposed to have found out letters: which invention is likewise attributed to Hermes. [44][Greek: Apo Misôr Taautos, hos heure tên tôn prôtôn stoicheiôn graphên.]----[Greek: Hellênes de Hermên ekalesan.] Suidas calls him Theus; and says, that he was the same as Arez, styled by the Arabians Theus Arez, and so worshipped at Petra. [Greek: Theusarês tout' esti Theos Arês, en Petrai tês Arabias.] Instead of a statue, there was [Greek: lithos melas, tetragônos, atupôtos], a black, square pillar of stone, without any figure, or representation. It was the same deity, which the Germans and Celtæ worshipped under the name of Theut-Ait, or Theutates; whose sacrifices were very cruel, as we learn from Lucan. [45]Et quibus immitis placatur sanguine diro Theutates. AB. Ab signifies a father, similar to [Hebrew: AB] of the Hebrews. It is often found in composition, as in Ab-El, Ab-On, Ab-Or. AUR, OUR, OR. Aur, sometimes expressed Or, Ur, and Our, signifies both light and fire. Hence came the Orus of the Egyptians, a title given to the Sun. [46]Quod solem vertimus, id in Hebræo est [Hebrew: AWR], Ur; quod lucem, et ignem, etiam et Solem denotat. It is often compounded with the term above, and rendered Abor, Aborus, Aborras: and it is otherwise diversified. This title was often given to Chus by his descendants; whom they styled Chusorus. From Aur, taken as an element, came Uro, Ardeo; as a Deity, oro, hora, [Greek: hôra, Hieron, Hiereus]. Zeus was styled Cham-Ur, rendered [Greek: Kômuros] by the Greeks; and under this title was worshipped at Halicarnassus. He is so called by Lycophron. [47][Greek: Êmos kataithôn thusthla Kômurôi Leôn.] Upon which the Scholiast observes; [Greek: (Kômuros) ho Zeus en Halikarnasôi timaitai.] EL. El, Al, [Greek: Êl], sometimes expressed Eli, was the name of the true God; but by the Zabians was transferred to the Sun: whence the Greeks borrowed their [Greek: Hêlios], and [Greek: Êelios]. El, and Elion, were titles, by which the people of Canaan distinguished their chief Deity. [48][Greek: Ginetai tis Elioun, kaloumenos hupsistos.] This they sometimes still farther compounded, and made Abelion: hence inscriptions are to be found [49]DEO ABELLIONI. El according to Damascius was a title given to Cronus. [50][Greek: Phoinikes kai Suroi ton Kronon Êl, kai Bêl, kai Bolathên eponomazousi.] _The Phenicians and Syrians name Cronus Eel, and Beel, and Bolathes._ The Canaanitish term Elion is a compound of Eli On, both titles of the Sun: hence the former is often joined with Aur, and Orus. [51]Elorus, and Alorus, were names both of persons and places. It is sometimes combined with Cham: whence we have Camillus, and Camulus: under which name the Deity of the Gentile world was in many places worshipped. Camulus and Camillus were in a manner antiquated among the Romans; but their worship was kept up in other countries. We find in Gruter an inscription [52]DEO CAMULO: and another, CAMULO. SANCTO. FORTISSIMO. They were both the same Deity, a little diversified; who was worshipped by the Hetrurians, and esteemed the same as Hermes. [53]Tusci Camillum appellant Mercurium. And not only the Deity, but the minister and attendant had the same name: for the priests of old were almost universally denominated from the God whom they served, or from his temple. The name appears to have been once very general. [54]Rerum omnium sacrarum administri Camilli dicebantur. But Plutarch seems to confine the term to one particular office and person. [55][Greek: Ton hupêretounta tôi Hierôi tou Dios amphithalê paida legesthai Kamillon, hôs kai ton Hermên; houtôs enioi
ouldy Jakes, energetically brushing his teeth over the tiny washing-basin, grunted assent. "Ever met my cousin Cecily?" pursued Thorogood. "No, I don't think you did: she was at school when we stayed with Uncle Bill before the war." "Shouldn't remember her if I had," mumbled the gallant. "She's Uncle Bill's ward, and by way of being rather fond of Podgie, I fancy--at least, she used to be, I know. But the silly old ass won't go near her since he lost his foot." Mouldy Jakes dried his tooth-brush, and, fumbling in his trouser pocket, produced a penny. "Heads or tails?" he queried. "Tails--why?" "It's a head. Bags I the lower berth." The India-rubber Man, in his compartment, had got into pyjamas and was sitting up in his bunk writing with a pencil and pad on his knees. When he had finished he stamped and addressed an envelope, rang for the attendant, and gave it to him to be posted at the next stopping-place. It bore an address in Queen's Gate, London, where at the moment the addressee, curled up in the centre of a very large bed, was doing her best in the darkness to keep a promise. [1] Torpedoes. [2] Mines. CHAPTER II THE "NAVY SPECIAL" Railway travel appeals to the sailor-man. It provides him with ample leisure for conversation, sleep, or convivial song. When the possibilities of these absorbing pursuits are exhausted, remains a heightened interest in the next meal. The pale February sunlight was streaming across snow-covered moorland that stretched away on either side of the line, when the Highland Express drew up at the first stopping place the following morning. From every carriage poured a throng of hungry bluejackets in search of breakfast. Many wore long coats of duffle or sheepskin provided by a maternal Admiralty in view of the severe weather conditions in the far North. The British bluejacket is accustomed to wear what he is told to wear, and further, to continue wearing it until he is told to put on something else. Hence a draft of men sent North to the Fleet from one of the Naval depots in the South of England would cheerfully don the duffle coats issued to them on departure and keep them on until they arrived at their destination, with an equal disregard for such outward circumstances as temperature or environment. A night's journey in a crowded and overheated railway carriage, muffled in such garb, would not commend itself to the average individual as an ideal prelude to a hearty breakfast. Yet the cheerful, sleepy-eyed crowd of apparently par-boiled Arctic explorers that invaded the restaurant buffet vociferously demanding breakfast, appeared on the best of terms with themselves, one another and the world at large. A score or more of officers besieged a flustered girl standing beside a pile of breakfast baskets, and the thin, keen morning air resounded with banter and voices. The King's Messenger, freshly shaven and pink of countenance (a woman once likened his face to that of a cherub looked at through a magnifying glass), stood at the door of his carriage and exchanged morning greetings with travellers of his acquaintance. Then the guard's whistle sounded; the noise and laughter redoubled along the platform and a general scramble ensued. Doors slammed down the length of the train, and the damsel in charge of the breakfast baskets raised her voice in lamentation. "Ane o' the gentlemen hasna paid for his basket!" she cried. Heads appeared at windows, and the owner of one extended a half-crown. "It's my friend in here," he explained. "His name is Mouldy Jakes, and he can't speak for himself because his mouth is too full of bacon; but he wishes me to say that he's awfully sorry he forgot. He was struck all of a heap at meeting a lady so early in the morning...." The speaker vanished abruptly, apparently jerked backwards by some mysterious agency. The train started. The maiden turned away with a simper. "It was no his friend at all," she observed to the young lady from the buffet, who had emerged to wave farewell to a bold, bad Engine Room Artificer after a desperate flirtation of some forty seconds' duration. "It was himself." "They're a' sae sonsie!" said the young lady from the buffet with a rapturous sigh. At the junction where the train stopped at noon, Naval occupation of the North proclaimed itself. A Master-at-Arms, austere of visage and stentorian voiced, fell upon the weary voyagers like a collie rallying a flock of sheep. A Lieutenant-Commander of the Reserve, in a tattered monkey-jacket, was superintending the unstowing of bags and hammocks by a party of ancient mariners in white working rig and brown gaiters. A retired Boatswain, who apparently bore the responsibilities of local Traffic Superintendent upon his broad shoulders, held sage council with the engine driver. The travellers were still many weary hours from their destination, but the solicitude of the great Mother Fleet for her sons' welfare was plain on every side. There were evidences of a carefully planned, wisely executed organisation in the speed with which the great crowd of blue-jackets and marines of all ranks and ratings, and bound for fifty different ships, were mustered, given their dinners and marshalled into the "Navy Special" that would take them on their journey. Mouldy Jakes deposited his bags and rug strap on the platform and surveyed the scene with mournful pride. "Good old Navy!" he observed to the India-rubber Man, while Thorogood went in search of food. "Good old firm! Father and mother and ticket collector and supplier of ham-sandwiches to us all. Who wouldn't sell his little farm and go to sea?" Standish picked up his suit-case and together they made for the adjoining platform, where the train that was to take them on their journey was waiting. They selected a carriage and were presently joined by Thorogood, burdened with eatables and soda water. The bluejackets were already in their carriages, and the remaining officers, to the number of about a score, were settling down in their compartments. They represented all ranks of the British Navy; a Captain and two Commanders were joined by the Naval Attaché of a great neutral Power on his way to visit the Fleet. An Engineer Commander and a Naval Instructor shared a luncheon basket with a Sub-Lieutenant and a volunteer Surgeon. Two Clerks, a Midshipman and a Torpedo Gunner found themselves thrown together, and at the last moment a Chaplain added himself to their company. The last door closed and the King's Messenger, carrying his despatch case, came limping along the platform in company with the grey-bearded Commander in charge of the base. The King's Messenger climbed into his carriage and the journey was resumed. Along the shores of jade-tinted lochs, through far-stretching deer forest and grouse moor, past brawling rivers of "snow-brew," and along the flanks of shale-strewn hills, the "Navy Special" bore its freight of sailor-men. No corridor connected the carriages to afford opportunities for an interchange of visits for gossip and change of companionship. The occupants of each compartment settled down grimly to endure the monotony of the last stage of their journey according to the dictates of their several temperaments. The King's Messenger, in the seclusion of his reserved compartment, read a novel at intervals and looked out of the window for familiar landmarks that recalled spells of leave in pre-war days, when he tramped on two feet through the heather behind the dogs, or, thigh deep in some river, sent a silken line out across the peat-brown water. In an adjoining compartment a Lieutenant of the Naval Reserve sat at one end facing a Lieutenant of the Volunteer Reserve, while a small Midshipman, effaced behind a magazine, occupied the other corner. Conversation, stifled by ham sandwiches, restarted fitfully, and flagged from train weariness. Darkness pursued the whirling landscape and blotted it out. Sleep overtook the majority of the travellers until the advent of tea baskets at the next stopping place revived them to a more lively interest in life and one another. The Reserve Lieutenant fussed over his like a woman. "I wouldn't trouble if I never smelt whisky again," he confided to his vis-à-vis, "but I couldn't get on without tea." He helped himself to three lumps of sugar. The ice thinned rapidly. "With fresh milk," said the Volunteer Reserve man appreciatively, pouring himself out a cup. "Eh, Jennings?" The Midshipman, thus addressed, grinned and applied himself in silence to a scone and jam. "Ah," said the Reserve man with a kind of tolerance in his tone, such as a professional might extend to the enthusiasm of an amateur in his own trade. "Cows scarce in your job?" "A bit," was the unruffled reply. "We've just brought a Norwegian wind-jammer in from the South of Iceland...." He indicated with a nod the young gentleman in the corner, who was removing traces of jam from his left cheek. "I'm bringing the armed guard back to our base." The Reserve man drank his tea after the manner of deep-sea sailor-men. That is to say, you could shut your eyes and still know: he was drinking hot tea. "Armed Merchant-cruiser squadron?" he queried. Imperceptibly his tone had changed. The Armed Merchant-cruisers maintain the Allied blockade across the trade routes of the Far North: "fancy" sailor-men do not apply for jobs in one of these amazons of the North Sea, and it takes more than a Naval uniform to bring a suspect sailing ship many miles into port for examination under an armed guard of four men. The Volunteer nodded. "We had a picnic, I can tell you. It blew like hell from the N.E., and the foretopmast--she was a barque--went like a carrot the second day. We hove to, trying to rig a jury mast, when up popped a Fritz."[1] The speaker laughed, a pleasant, deep laugh of complete enjoyment. "I thought we were in for a swim that would knock the cross-Channel record silly! However, I borrowed a suit from the skipper--and he wasn't what you'd call fastidious in his dress either----" The Volunteer made a little grimace at the recollection, because he was a man of refined tastes and raced his own yacht across the Atlantic in peace time. "It was too rough to board, but the submarine closed to within hailing distance, and a little pipsqueak of a Lieutenant, nervous as a cat, talked to us through a megaphone. Fortunately I can speak Norwegian...." "What about the skipper of the wind-jammer?" interrupted the other. "He kept his mouth shut. Wasn't much in sympathy with the company that owned the submarine, having lost a brother the month before in a steamship shelled and sunk without warning. You can't please everybody, it seems, when you start out to act mad in a submarine. Well, this lad examined our papers through a glass and I chucked him a cigar.... He hadn't had a smoke for a week. Then he sheered off, because he saw something on the horizon that scared him. He was very young, and, as I've said, nerves like fiddle strings." The Reserve man lit a cigarette and inhaled a great draught of smoke. There was something in his alert, intent expression reminiscent of a bull terrier when he hears rats scuffling behind a wainscot. The war has evolved specialists without number in branches of Naval warfare hitherto unknown and unsuspected. Among these is the Submarine Hunter. The Reserve man belonged to this type, which is simply a reversion to the most primitive and savage of the fighting instincts. At the first mention of the German submarine he leaned forward eagerly. "Threw him a cigar, did you?" he said grimly. "Sorry I wasn't there. I'd have thrown him something. That's my line of business--Fritz-hunting." The ribbon of the Distinguished Service Cross on the lapel of his monkey-jacket showed that he apparently pursued this branch of sport with some effect. "Been at it from the kick-off," he continued. "Started with herring nets, you know!" He laughed a deep bark of amusement. "Lord! We had a lot to learn. We began from an East Coast fishing port, working with crazy drifters manned by East Coast fishermen. There was a retired Admiral in charge, as tough an old terror as ever pulled on a sea boot--and half a dozen of us all together, some Active Service and some Reserve like me. Navy? Bless you, _we_ were the Navy, that old Admiral and us six." The speaker raised his voice to make plain his words above the rattle of the train. "There was a lot of talk in the papers about Jellicoe and Beatty and the Grand Fleet and the Battle Cruisers, but they didn't come our way and we didn't trouble them. We had a couple of score of trawlers and drifters and four hundred simple fishermen to cram the fear of the Lord into. That was our job!" He spoke with the peculiar word-sparing vividness of the man to whom the Almighty had vouchsafed the mysterious gift of handling other men. "Long-shore and deep-sea fishermen, good material, damned good, but they took a lot of coaxing." He paused and contemplated his hands resting on his knees. Scarred by frost-bite they were, with huge bones protruding like knuckle-dusters. "Coaxing, mind you," he repeated. "I've been chief of an Argentine cattle-boat for four years and Second on a windjammer round the Horn for three years before that. I know when to drive and when to coax. Never touched a man, sir." He paused, rubbing off the moisture condensed on the window, to peer info the night. Here, then, was an Apostle of Naval Discipline among a community of fishermen whose acknowledged tradition it was to get drunk when and where it suited their inclinations, to put to sea in the top-hats of their ancestors and return to harbour as weather or the fish dictated, whose instinctive attitude towards strangers was about as encouraging as that of the Solomon Islanders. "We took 'em and trained 'em--gradually, you understand. Taught 'em to salute the King's uniform, an' just why orders had to be obeyed: explained it all gently"--the stupendous hand made a gesture in the air as if stroking something. "Then after a while we moved 'em on to something else--the Game itself, in fact--and my merry men tumbled to it in no time. It was in their blood, I guess. They'd hunted something all their lives, and they weren't scared because they had to take on something a bit bigger. I tell you, after a few weeks I just prayed for a submarine to come along and show what we could do." The Volunteer grinned understandingly. "Well?" he said. "We got one a week later. Just for all the world like a bloomin' salmon. First we knew that there was one about was the _Merrie Maggie_, one of our trawlers, blowing up. Well, I'd been over the same spot in the morning, and there were no mines there then, so I knew our friend wasn't far off...." The Submarine Hunter mused for a moment, staring at his clasped hands, with the faint blue tattoo-marks showing under the tan. "We got him at dawn--off a headland.... Oh, best bit of sport that ever I had!" The speaker's hard grey eye softened at the recollection. "We've got lots since, but never one as neat as that. He just came to the surface and showed his tail-fin and----" the huge hands made a significant downward gesture. If you have ever heard a Regimental Bombing Officer describe the clearing of an enemy traverse, you will understand the complete expressiveness of that gesture. "I'm going North now to join a new base up there. There are one or two dodges that I can put them up to, I reckon." The Volunteer filled and lit a pipe. "Pretty work it sounds. Ours is duller, on the whole, but we get our share of excitement. You never sight a steamer flying neutral colours without the possibility of her hoisting the German ensign and slipping a torpedo into you. That's why we introduced the Red Pendant business. It meant inconvenience for all parties, but neutrals have only got the Hun to thank for it." "Never heard of it," said the other. "Fritz-hunting is my game." "Well, you see, ever since they've tried to slip raiders through the blockade we can't afford to close a stranger flying neutral colours within gun or torpedo range. So we had to explain to neutrals that a red flag hoisted by one of our merchant cruisers is the signal to heave to instantly, and that brings her up well out of range. Then we drop a boat and steam off and signal her to close the boat, and the boarding officer goes on board and examines her papers. If she's got a cargo without guarantees she's sent into one of the examination ports under an armed guard to have it overhauled properly." "For contraband?" "Yes, and to see that the commodity she carries isn't in excess of the ration allowed to the country of destination--if she's eastward bound, that is. Also the passengers are scrutinised for suspects, and so on; it's a big job, one way and another. That's all done by the Examination Service at the port, though, and I don't envy them the job. We only catch 'em and bring 'em in." For a while longer he talked between puffs at his pipe of the "twilight service" rendered by the Armed Merchant-cruisers. He spoke of grim stern-chases under the Northern Lights, of perils from ice and submarines and winter gales, while the Allied strangle-hold tightened month by month, remorselessly, relentlessly. "It's a peaceful sort of job, though, on the whole," he concluded. "Nobody worries us. The public, most of 'em, don't know we exist. Journalists don't want to come and visit us much," he chuckled. "We don't find our way into the illustrated papers...." "That's right," said the Submarine Hunter. "That's the way to work in war-time. If I had my way----" A jarring shudder ran through the train as the brakes were applied and the speed slackened. The Reserve Man lowered the window and peered out into the darkness. A flurry of snow drifted into the dimly lighted carriage. "Hallo!" he ejaculated. "We're here. Bless me, how the time goes when one gets yarning." The Volunteer rose and held out his hand. "My name is Armitage," he said, and named two exclusive clubs, one in London and the other in New York. "Look me up after the war if you pass that way." The Submarine Hunter took the proffered hand in his formidable grip. "Pleased to have met you. Mine's Gedge. I don't own a club, but the Liverpool Shipping Federation generally knows my address. And the girls from Simonstown to Vladivostock will tell you if I've passed that way!" He threw back his head, displaying the muscular great throat above his collar, and laughed like a mischievous boy. "Good luck!" he said. "Good hunting!" replied the Volunteer. He turned to the Midshipman. "Come along, sonny, shake the sleep out of your eyes and go and collect our little party." Outside in the snowy darkness the great concourse of men was being mustered: lanterns gleamed on wet oilskins and men's faces. Hoarse voices and the tramp of heavy boots through the slush heralded the passage along the platform of each draft as they were marched to the barrier. A cold wind cut through the cheerless night like a knife. Armitage paused for a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness. "Here we are, Mouldy," said a clear-cut, well-bred voice out of the darkness surrounding a pile of luggage. "Here's our stuff. Get a truck, old thing!" Armitage turned in the direction of the voice: as he did so a passing lantern flashed on the face of a Lieutenant stooping over some portmanteaux. "I thought as much," he said. "Thought I recognised the voice." He stepped towards the speaker and rested his hand on his shoulder. "James Thorogood, isn't it?" he said. The other straightened up and peered through the darkness at the face of the Volunteer Lieutenant. "Yes," he replied, "but it's devilish dark--I can't----" "I'm Armitage," said the other. Thorogood laughed. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "Were you in the train? I didn't see you before----" "Neither did I," was the reply, "but I heard your voice and recognised it. How is Sir William?" "Uncle Bill? Oh, he's all right. Hard at work on some comic invention of his, as usual." The other nodded. "Well, give him my love when you write, and tell him I've struck the type of man he wants for that experiment of his. I'll write to him, though. Now I must go and find my little party of braves--bringing an armed guard back to our base. Good-bye and good luck to you." They shook hands, and the Volunteer half turned away. An afterthought appeared to strike him, however, and he stopped. "By the way," he added, "how's Miss Cecily? Well, I hope?" "She's all right, thanks," was the reply. "I'll tell her I've seen you." "Will you? Yes, thank you. And will you say I--I am looking forward to seeing her again next time I come South?" The speaker moved away into the darkness. At that moment appeared Mouldy Jakes, panting behind a barrow. "Who's that old bird?" he queried. "Another of 'em," replied Thorogood. "'Nother of what?" "Cecily's hopeless attachments. He's a pal of Uncle Bill's, and as rich as Croesus. Amateur deep sea yachtsman before the war. He's awfully gone on Cecily." "'Counts for him hanging round your neck, I s'pose," commented the student of human nature. "Sort of 'dweller-near-the-rose' business. Heave that suit-case over--unless you can find any more of your cousin's admirers sculling about the country. P'raps they'll load this truck for us and shove it to the boat. Ah, here's Podgie!" A moment later the King's Messenger joined the group. "Will you all come and have supper with me at the hotel?" he said. "It's the last meal you'll get on terra firma for some time to come. I've got a car waiting outside." Mouldy Jakes heaved the last of the bags on to the hand-cart and enlisted the services of a superannuated porter drifting past in the darkness. The King's Messenger had slipped his arm inside Thorogood's, and the two moved on towards the barrier. "Has your wife got a young brother?" asked Mouldy Jakes abruptly as he and the India-rubber Man followed in the wake of the porter and the barrow. "Yes," replied Standish. "A lad called Joe--cadet at Dartmouth." "Did you ever ask him to dinner--before you were engaged, I mean?" pursued the inquisitor. The India-rubber Man laughed. "Well, not dinner exactly. But I went down to Osborne College once and stood him a blow-out at the tuck-shop." His companion nodded darkly in the direction of the King's Messenger. "Shouldn't wonder if Thorogood was feeling like that lad Joe. Useful fellow to travel with, Thorogood." [1] Submarine. CHAPTER III ULTIMA THULE Across the stormy North Sea came the first faint streak of dawn. It overtook a long line of Destroyers rolling landward with battered bridge-screens and salt-crusted funnels; it met a flotilla of mine-sweeping Sloops, labouring patiently out to their unending task. It lit the frowning cliffs, round which wind-tossed gulls wailed and breakers had thundered the beat of an ocean's pulse throughout the ages. The Destroyers were not sorry to see the dawn. The night was their task-master: in darkness they worked and in the Shadow of Death. They passed within hailing distance of the Sloops, and on board the reeling Destroyers here and there a figure in streaming oilskins raised his arm and waved a salutation to the squat grey craft setting forth in the comfortless dawn to holystone Death's doorstep. The Mine-sweepers refrained from any such amenity. Anon the darkness would come again, when no man may sweep for mines. Then would be their turn for grins and the waving of arms. In the meanwhile, they preferred to remain grim and restless as their work. Presently the Destroyers, obedient to a knotted tangle of flags at the yardarm of their leader, altered course a little; they were making for an opening in the wall of rock, on either side of which gaunt promontories thrust their naked shoulders into the surf. The long black, viperish hulls passed through under the ever-watchful eyes of the shore batteries, and the hooded figures on the Destroyer bridges threw back their duffle cowls and wiped the night's accumulation of dried spray and cinders out of the puckers round their tired eyes. The Commanding Officer of the leading Destroyer leaned across the bridge-rails and stared round at the ring of barren islands encircling the great expanse of water into which they had passed, the naked, snow-powdered hills in the background: at the greyness and desolation of earth and sky and sea. "Home again!" he said in an undertone to the Lieutenant beside him. "It ain't much of a place to look at, but I'm never sorry to see it again after a dusting like we got last night." The Lieutenant raised the glasses slung round his neck by a strap and levelled them at a semi-globular object that had appeared on the surface some distance away. "There's old Tirpitz waiting to say good morning as usual." The Commander laughed. "Rum old devil he is. That's where the Hun has the pull over us. He's got something better than a seal to welcome him back to harbour--when he _does_ get back!" "When he does, yes." The other chuckled. "Gretchens an' iron crosses an' joy bells. Lord, I'd love to see 'em, wouldn't you? Just for five minutes!" The Commander moved across to the tiny binnacle. "I'd rather see my own wife for five minutes," he replied. Then, raising his voice, "Starboard ten!" "Starboard ten, sir," repeated the voice of the helmsman. The Commander stood with watchful eye on the swinging compass card. "Midships... steady!" "Steady, sir!" sang the echo at the wheel. The Commander glanced aft through the trail of smoke at the next astern swinging round in the smother of his wake. "Well, we shan't be long now before we tie up to the buoy--curse these fellows! Here come all the drifters with mails and ratings for the Fleet.... Port five!" "Port five, sir!" The flotilla altered course disdainfully to avoid a steam drifter which wallowed through the wake of the Destroyers in the direction of the distant fleet, still shrouded by the morning mist. "That's the King's Messenger going off to the Fleet Flagship. There come the others, strung out in a procession, making for the different squadrons. Wake up, you son of Ham!" The speaker stepped to the lanyard of the syren and jerked it savagely. Obedient to the warning wail another drifter altered course in reluctant compliance with the Rule of the Road. "I'd rather take the flotilla through Piccadilly Circus than manoeuvre among these Fleet Messengers! They're bad enough on the high seas in peace-time with their nets out, but booming about inside a harbour they're enough to turn one's hair grey." If the truth be told, the past had known no great love lost between the Destroyers and the fishing fleet. Herring-nets round a propeller are not calculated to bind hearts together in brotherly affection. Perhaps dim recollections of bygone mishaps of this nature had soured the Destroyer Commander's heart towards the steam-drifter. On the outbreak of war, however, the steam fishing fleets became an arm of the great Navy itself, far-reaching as its own squadrons. They exchanged their nets for guns and mine-sweeping paraphernalia: they became submarine-hunters, mine-sweepers, fleet-messengers and patrollers of the great commerce sea-ways in the South. They became a little Navy within the Navy, in fact, already boasting their own peculiar traditions, and probably as large a proportion of D.S.C.'s as any other branch of the mother Service. They are a slow, crab-gaited community that clings to gold earrings and fights in jerseys and thigh boots from which the fish-scales have not altogether departed. Ashore, on the other hand (where their women rule), they consent to the peaked cap and brass buttons of His Majesty's uniform, and wear it, moreover, with the coy self-consciousness of a bulldog in a monogrammed coat. Link by link they have built up a chain of associations with the parent Navy that will not be easily broken when the time comes for these little auxiliaries to return to their peaceful calling. They have worked side by side with the dripping Submarine; they have sheltered through storms in the lee of anchored Battleships; they have piloted proud Cruisers through the newly-swept channels of a mine-field, and brought a Battle-cruiser Squadron its Christmas mail in the teeth of a Northern blizzard. In token of these things, babies born in fishing villages from the Orkneys to the Nore have been christened after famous Admirals and men-of-war, that the new generation shall remember. The drifter that had altered course slowly came round again when the last of the Destroyers swept past, and the three figures in the bows ducked as she shipped a bucket of spray and flung it aft over the tiny wheel-house. One of the figures turned and stared after the retreating hulls. "Confound 'em," he said. "Just like the blooming Destroyers, chucking their weight about as if they owned creation, and making us take their beastly wash." He took off his cap and shook the salt water from it. One of the other two chuckled. "Never'mind, Mouldy, it will be your turn to laugh next time we go to sea, when you're perched on the forebridge sixty feet above the waterline, and watching our Destroyer-screen shipping it green over their funnels." Mouldy Jakes shook his head gloomily. "Laugh!" he echoed. "Then I'd get shoved under arrest by the skipper under suspicion of being drunk." The drifter rounded an outlying promontory of one of the islands, and Thorogood raised his hand. "There you are," he said, "there's our little lot!" He indicated with a nod the Battle-fleet of Britain. "And very nice too," said the India-rubber Man, staring in the direction of the other's gaze. "Puts me in mind, as they say, of a picture I saw once. 'National Insurance,' I think it was called." A shaft of sunlight had struggled through a rift in the clouds and fell athwart the dark waters of the harbour. In the far distance, outlined against the sombre hills and lit by the pale sunshine, a thicket of tripod masts rose towering above the grey hulls of the anchored Battle-fleet. As the drifter drew near the different classes of ships became distinguishable. A squadron of Light Cruisers were anchored between them and the main Fleet, with a thin haze of smoke hovering above their raking funnels. Beyond them, line upon line, in a kind of sullen majesty, lay the Battleships. Seen thus in peace-time, a thousand glistening points of burnished metal, the white of the awnings, smooth surfaces of enamel, varnish and gold-leaf would have caught the liquid sunlight and concealed the menace of that stern array. Now, however, stripped of awnings, with bare decks, stark as gladiators, sombre and terrible, they conveyed a relentless significance heightened by the desolation of their surroundings. From the offing came the rumble of heavy gunfire. "Don't be alarmed," said Thorogood to the India-rubber Man, who had turned in the direction of the sound; "we haven't missed the bus!" He looked along the lines with a swift, practised eye. "It's only some of the Battle-cruisers out doing target practice. That's our squadron, there." He pointed ahead. "We're the second ship in that line." The drifter passed up a broad lane, on either side of which towered grey steel walls, unbroken by scuttles or embrasures; above them the muzzles of guns hooded by casemates and turrets, the mighty funnels, piled up bridges and superstructures, frowned down like the battlements of fortresses. Men, dwarfed by the magnitude of their environment to the size of ants, and clad in jerseys and white working-rig, swarmed about the decks and batteries. "There's the Fleet Flagship," continued Thorogood, pointing. "That ship with the drifters round her, flying the Commander-in-Chief's flag. That's where Podgie was bound for. Rummy to think he'll be back in London again in a couple of days' time!" A seaplane that had been riding on the surface near the Fleet Flagship's quarter, rose like a flying gull, circled in wide spirals over the Fleet and sped seawards. Across the lanes of water, armed picket-boats, with preternaturally grave-faced Midshipmen at their wheels, picked their way amongst the traffic of drifters, cutters under sail, hooting store carriers and puffers from the distant base. Mouldy Jakes contemplated the busy scene without undue enthusiasm. "Everything seems to be much the same as usual," was his dry comment. "They seem to have got on all right without me for the last seven days. We've had a coat of paint, too. Wonder what's up. P'raps the King's coming to pay us a visit. Or else the Commander reckons it's about time to beat up for his promotion." The skipper of the drifter jerked the miniature telegraph to "Slow," and a hoary-headed deck-hand stumped into the bows with a heaving line coiled over his arm.
_ Medal-- Canon Greenwell--Mr Montagu--Story of a Dutch Priest--My Experience of Pictures--The Stray Portrait recovered after Many Years--The Two Wilson Landscapes--Sir Joshua's Portrait of Richard Burke--Hazlitt's Likeness of Lamb--The Picture Market and Some of Its Incidence--Story of a Painting--Plate--The Rat-tailed Spoon--Dr Diamond smitten-- The Hogarth Salver--The Edmund Bury Godfrey and Blacksmiths' Cups--Irish Plate--Danger of Repairing or Cleaning Old Silver--The City Companies' Plate, 215 CHAPTER XII Coins--Origin of My Feeling for Them--Humble Commencement-- Groping in the Dark--My Scanty Means and Equally Scanty Knowledge, but Immense Enthusiasm and Inflexibility of Purpose--The Maiden Acquisition Sold for Sixteenpence--The Two Earliest Pieces of the New Departure--To whom I first went--Continuity of Purchases in All Classes--Visit to Italy (1883)--My Eyes gradually opened--Count Papadopoli and Other Numismatic Authorities--My Sketch of the Coins of Venice published (1884)--Casual Additions to the Collection and Curious Adventures--Singular Illusions of the Inexperienced--Anecdotes of a Relative--Two Wild Money-Changers Tamed--Captain Hudson--The Auction-Thief--A Small Joke to be pardoned, 235 CHAPTER XIII My Principal Furnishers--Influence of Early Training on My Taste--Rejection of Inferior Examples an Invaluable Safeguard--I outgrow My First Instructors--Necessity for Emancipation from a Single Source of Supply--Mr Schulman of Amersfoort--His Influential Share in Amplifying My Numismatic Stores--My Visit to Him--The Rare _Daalder_ of Louis Napoleon, King of Holland--My Adventures at Utrecht and Brussels--Flattering Confidence--In the Open Market-- Schulman's Catalogues--MM. Rollin & Feuardent--Their English Representative--Courtesy and Kindness to the Writer--Occasional Purchases--The Late Mr Montagu-- Discussion about an Athenian Gold _Stater_--An Atmospheric Experiment--My Manifold Obligations to Mr Whelan--Mr Cockburn of Richmond allows Me to select from His English Collection--I forestall Mr Montagu--Messrs Spink & Son-- Their Prominent Rank and Cordial Espousal of My Interests and Wants--Development of My Cabinet under Their Auspices-- My Agreeable Relations with Them--Their Business-like Policy, Liberality and Independence--The Prince of Naples-- We give and take a Little--The Monthly _Numismatic Circular_--The Clerical Client, 257 CHAPTER XIV The Coin Sales--My Stealthy Accumulations from Some of Them--Comparative Advantages of Large and Small Sales--The Disappointment over One at Genoa--The Boyne Sale--Its Meagre Proportion of Fine Pieces--My Comfort, and what came to Me--Narrow Escape of the Collection from Sacrifice to a Foreign Combination--Trade Sales Abroad--A New Departure-- Considerations on Poorly-Preserved Coins--I resign Them to the Learned--I have to Classify by Countries and Their Divisions--My Personal Appurtenances--Suggestions which may be Useful to Others--The Great Bactrian Discovery--Extent of Representative Collections of Ancient Money--Antony and Cleopatra--Adherence to My own Fixed and Deliberate Plan-- The Argument to be used by Any One following in My Footsteps--Advice of an Old Collector to a New One, 284 CHAPTER XV Literary Direction given to My Numismatic Studies and Choice--The Wallenstein Thaler--The Good Caliph Haroun El Reschid--Some of the Twelve Peers of France who struck Money--Lorenzo de' Medici, called _The Magnificent_--Robert the Devil--Alfred the Great--Harold--The Empress Matilda-- Marino Faliero--Massaniello--The Technist thinks poorly of Me--My Plea for the Human, Educating Interest in Coins--The Penny Box now and then makes a Real Collector--How I threw Myself _in Medias Res_--First Impressions of the Greek Series--My Difficulty in Apprehending Facts--Early Illusions gradually dissipated--What Constitutes a Typical Greek and Roman Cabinet--And what renders Great Collections Great--Redundance in Certain Cases defended--Official Authorities except to My Treatment of the Subject--Tom Tidler's Ground--The Technical _versus_ the Vital and Substantial Interest in Coins--My Width of Sympathy Beneficial to Myself and likely to prove so to My Followers--Outline and Distribution of My Collection-- Autotype Replicas and Forgeries--Romantic Evolution of Bactrian Coinage and History--Caution to My Fellow-Collectors against Excessive Prices for Greek Coins--Wait and Watch--Mr Hyman Montagu and His Roman Gold, and the Moral--The Best Coins not the Dearest--Our National Series--Its Susceptibility to Eclectic Treatment--A Whimsical Speculation--An Untechnical Method of Looking at a Coin--A Burst Bubble--The Continental Currencies--Their Clear Superiority of Interest and Instructive Power--The Writer's Attitude toward Them, 304 CHAPTER XVI The Question of Condition considered More at Large--How One most Forcibly Realises Its Importance and Value--Limited Survival of Ancient Coins in Fine State--Practical Tests at Home and Abroad--Lower Standard in Public Institutions and the Cause--Only Three Collectors on My Lines besides Myself--The Romance of the Shepherd Sale--Its Confirmation of My Views--Small Proportion of Genuine Amateurs in the Coin-Market--Fastidious Buyers not very Serviceable to the Trade--An Anecdote by the Way--The Eye for State more Educated in England than Abroad--American Feeling and Culture--What will Rare Old Coins bring, when the Knowledge of Them is more developed?--The Ladies stop the Way-- Continental Indifference to Condition--Difficulties attendant on Ordering from Foreign Catalogues--Contrast between Them and Our Own--_D'une Beauté Excessive_-- Condition a Relative Term--Its Dependence on circumstances--Words of Counsel--Final Conclusions--Do I regret having become a Collector?--My Mistakes, 331 Confessions of a Collector CHAPTER I My Antecedents--How and Whence the Passion came to Me--My Father's People--And My Mother's--My Uncle--His Genuine Feeling for what was Old and Curious--A Disciple of Charles Lamb--Books My First Love--My Courtship of Them under My Father's Roof--My Clandestine Acquisitions--A Small Bibliographical Romance--My Uncle as a Collector--Some of His Treasures--His Choice, and how He differed from My Father--An Adventure of the Latter at a Bookstall--Bargains--The Author moralises upon Them--A New View--I begin to be a Bibliographer--Venice strikes My Fancy as a Subject for Treatment--My Want of Acquaintance with It--Mr Quaritch and Mr Ruskin do not encourage Me--I resolve to proceed--I teach Myself what was Requisite to enable Me to do so--Some of My Experiences--Molini the Elder--The London Library Forty Years Ago--What became of My Collections for the Work--Preparing for Another and Greater Scheme. When one makes in later life some sort of figure as a collector, it may become natural to consider to what favouring circumstances the entrance on the pursuit or pursuits was due. In the present case those circumstances were slight and trivial enough. Although I belonged to a literary family, none of my ancestors had been smitten by the bibliomania or other cognate passion, simply because at first our resources were of the most limited character, and my grandfather was a man of letters and nothing more. He was without that strange, inexplicable cacoethes, which leads so many to gather together objects of art and curiosities on no definite principle or plea throughout their lives, to be scattered again when they depart, and taken up into their bookcases or cabinets by a new generation. This process, broadly speaking, has been in operation thousands of years. It is an inborn and indestructible human trait. The earliest vestige of a feeling for books among us is unconnected with Collecting as a passion. My great-grandfather, the Presbyterian or Congregational minister, had his shelf or two of volumes, mostly of a professional cast. We hear of the _Fratres Poloni_, five stupendous folios, brimful of erudition--books which seem, to our more frivolous and superficial and hurrying age, better suited to occupy a niche in a museum as a monumental testimony to departed scholarship--books, alas! which those blind instruments of the revolutionary spirit of change, the paper mill and the fire, draw day by day nearer to canonisation in a few inviolable resting-places, as in sanctuaries dedicated to the holy dead. They will enter on a new and more odorous life: we shall look awfully upon them as upon literary petrifactions, which to bygone ages were living and speaking things. The Rev. W. Hazlitt was, nevertheless, a man of unusually generous sympathies for his time and his cloth; he could relish secular as well as sacred literature, and his distinguished son thought better of him as a letter-writer than as a preacher. But neither engaged in the pursuit of books otherwise than as practical objects of study or entertainment. There was nothing 'hobby-horsical,' to borrow Coleridge's expression, about the matter. Hazlitt himself secured, as he tells us, stall copies of favourite books or pamphlets, devoured the contents, and then probably cast them aside. This I take to have been Shakespear's plan. I cannot believe the great poet to have been a bibliophile like Jonson. He merely recognised in other men's work material or suggestion for his own. I conclude that with my father and the Scotish blood of his maternal progenitors, the Stoddarts and Moncrieffs, a certain share of taste for antiquities, or, at any rate, for memorials of the past in a literary shape, was inherited by the Hazlitts. My immediate paternal ancestor, the late Mr Registrar Hazlitt, undoubtedly possessed a strong instinctive disposition to form around him a collection of books. He was emphatically acquisitive almost to the last; and had he been a richer man, he would probably have left behind him a fairly good and extensive library. My father was deficient in knowledge and insight--I might add, in judgment. He bought the wrong copies, or he allowed the right ones to be massacred by a pagan binder; but he was a book-lover. The nucleus of his collection had been a set of Hazlitt's works, a few volumes given to him by Miss Lamb and others, and, of course, his own publications. His alliance by marriage to the Reynells introduced another stage in our bibliographical evolution. My mother's brother, Mr Charles Weatherby Reynell, of whom I have so much to say elsewhere, was not only a book-buyer on a modest scale, but a gentleman with a vague, undefined liking for anything which struck him as quaint and curious--a coin, a piece of china, a picture, a bit of old painted glass, a Chippendale chair--it hardly signified what it was; but books had the first place, I think, in his heart, and he knew a good deal about such as he had purchased, and thought a good deal about them too, albeit they were, as copies, hardly calculated for the meridian of the fastidious connoisseur. In short, my relative was a disciple of the Lamb school; he selected for merit rather than condition, and his _petite bibliothéque_ was part of his very being. My father and Mr Reynell may be regarded as my bibliographical and archæological sponsors, and they have to answer for a good deal. Instead of becoming a distinguished civil servant, a prosperous trader, or a successful professional man, they contributed, I maintain, to mould me into what I was and am--a bibliographer, a collector, an antiquary. Books, as they were my father's only, and my uncle's chief, paramours, were my first love. My father often laid out money on them, when I am now sure that he could ill afford it, and when the hour of pressure arrived, it was the books to which we had to bid farewell. How many I have seen come and go, while I was a boy under my father's roof--successive copies of the same favourite work, or little lots of different volumes. Stibbs's, opposite Somerset House, and next door to the _Morning Chronicle_ office, is almost the earliest shop of the kind which I remember; a second was William Brown's, originally on the same premises. These two establishments witnessed the flux and reflux of many a brown paper parcel sent home in a moment of impulse, and launched on its backward voyage at a lower quotation in some financial dilemma--a contingency too frequent in the days before relief arrived in the shape of an official post. I am haunted in all my maturer life by a feeling of remorse, that on two or three occasions I was betrayed into making foolish investments on my own authority, when neither my father nor myself could properly defray the expense. But the _lues_ which was, in due course, to assume such enlarged dominion over me, and to branch into so many channels, was already an active agency; and my visits to the shop in the Strand, kept by Mr Brown, bore mischievous fruit in one instance at all events, when I secured for 24s. a set of Singer's _Select Early English Poets_, in boards, uncut. My father was terribly concerned, not knowing where this sort of fancy was likely to end; but he recognised, perhaps, his own teaching, and eventually the Singer was bound by Leighton in half-blue morocco. It was a beautiful little set, I thought, and brand-new in its fresh livery. The day came when we had to say good-bye to it--not to it alone; and I should have wished never to behold it again. I did, however; I met with it at an auction; it was faded, thumbed, disreputable. I had not the courage to touch it; it was no longer mine. I mused as I left the place upon its career and its destiny, and it made me really sad. I have spoken of Mr Reynell as one of my teachers or masters. He was a person who had a genuine love for our older literature, and enjoyed even better opportunities than my father of indulging it. But his purchases were sparing and desultory, and he never attained any distinction as a collector. He had not studied the subject, and he never became wealthy enough to secure the services of competent advisers. In fact, his want of knowledge rendered him distrustful of counsel. The result was that he accumulated, during a very prolonged life, a singular assemblage of nondescript property, of which the really valuable proportion was infinitesimal. It was perfectly fortuitous, that he had picked up an exceedingly rare _Psalter_, in rather ragged state, for 25s., which at his sale, a year or two back, Mr Quaritch deemed worth £24, and a folio _Roman de la Rose_, which fetched a good price, and cost him the same moderate sum. As a rule, he invariably, from want of training and fine instinct, bought the wrong article, or, if the right one, in the wrong condition. He had not the eye of George Daniel, R. S. Turner, or Henry Huth, for form and fitness. Yet he was my instructor in a degree and a sense, and many delightful talks we have had about old books, which one or the other of us had seen or admired. He always listened with interest to my stories of adventures up and down the book-world, of which some are reserved for a future chapter; but he felt his inability, I concluded, to enter into the field with stronger competitors, and he usually returned to the contemplation of his own humble appurtenances with a sense of contentment, if not of superiority. He was totally different from my father in his ideas about books. He did not, in general, care for the modern side, unless it was a first edition of his life-long friend Leigh Hunt, of Hazlitt, or of some other author to whom he was personally attached. On the contrary, my father never cultivated the older editions or original copies. The best standard text was his line. I had from him a little anecdote which shews him in the light of a book-hunter; but then it was for an immediate and isolated literary purpose. While he was engaged about 1840 in editing the works of Defoe, he tried to procure a copy of the _Account of the Apparition of Mrs Veal_, and went, among other likely resorts, to Baker of Old Street, St Luke's. That individual derided the notion of finding such a rarity; and my father, turning away, cast an eye on Baker's twopenny box outside. There what should he disinter but the identical pamphlet, and he takes twopence out of his pocket, which he hands to the boy, and puts the prize into it, which he carries home in triumph. It was the only bargain of which I ever heard him speak. He was not that way built. I sometimes wish that my experiences had not been infinitely more numerous. The seeking and winning of bargains constitute an attractive pursuit and an equally attractive topic. You have the power of regaling your less fortunate or unpractical acquaintances with the strange chances, which enabled you to become the master for a trifle of such and such treasures and you gain confidence in your continued good fortune,-- 'When a fool finds a horse-shoe, He thinks aye the like to do.' It has sometimes appeared to me, however, that the general public looks with modified respect on this class of venture, more especially as it does not share the profits; and what is absolutely certain is, that the whole system of treating literature from a commercial point of view is narrowing and lowering, and tends to harden, if not to extinguish, that fine sensibility which is proper to the bibliophile. Since I was led by a union of circumstances to look upon rare books as a source of advantage, I have grown sensible of a change for the worse in my nature; yet, I think, only so far as the bare ownership is concerned. The volumes which I loved as a younger man are still dear to me; I keep them in my mind's eye; they stand in no peril at my hands of being degraded into _goods_ or _stuff_; I do not hold them, because the outlay or capital which they represent is far more than I can afford to lock up; and in the nature of things I have to content myself with being the recipient of the difference, if not of feeling, that I appreciate the book and know its history better than the man to whom it passes from me. I should be truly ashamed if I had to confess that with the actual proprietary interest in the literary or bibliographical rarities which I have had through my hands during the last forty years my substantial affection for the subject-matter and the authors began and ended. Thousands of precious volumes, which might be mine, if I had been otherwise situated, are merely as a question of form and pecuniary arrangement in the British Museum, in the Bodleian, or in some private library; they are one and all before me at any moment, when I choose to summon them. I remember how they are bound, and the story which each tells; but they are in the keeping of others. Should I be happier, were they in mine? My father was one of the oldest members of the London Library in St James's Square, and I long availed myself of his ticket to frequent and use that highly valuable institution. I consider that this circumstance tended importantly to stimulate and confirm my natural bookish propensity. For whatever besides I have been and am, my central interest, as well as claim to public consideration, is associable with the cause of our earlier vernacular literature. I shall be able to demonstrate with tolerable clearness by-and-by that I have through my quiet, and in a manner uneventful, career busied myself with several other topics, not to mention those which lie outside such an undertaking as the present; but my friends seem to have agreed that it is as a bibliographer that I most distinctly and emphatically pose. I shall argue that point no further. What is more relevant is that at the London Library I met with Smedley's _Sketches from Venetian History_, which I perused with enjoyment as a novice, and that this acquaintance led to others and to an exchange of ideas with people about the subject and its position in English literature. With no resources of my own, and with very slight aid from my father, I set to work and collected material. My imperfect knowledge of languages was a stumbling block. When I waited on Mr Quaritch in Castle Street and laid bare my ignorance of Italian by asking for Cicognara's work on _Fabrics_ instead of _Buildings_, that distinguished personage tellingly reproved me by suggesting that the first thing for me to do was to learn Italian. My perseverance, however, was indomitable. I had set my heart on writing about Venice. It was enough. I did not, as Mr Quaritch observed, know much about Italian. I had never seen the place. When I wrote to Mr Ruskin respectfully soliciting helpful suggestions, he left my letter unanswered. What could be done? Why, I borrowed the few works which were to be found at our library, bought some which were not, and for others I sent to Italy through Molini. I taught myself French and Italian, and the Venetian dialect. I studied all the views of the city which I could find, and I brought out my first rough draft in 1857, when I was three-and-twenty. An amusing illustration of my early faculty of inspiring confidence in the minds of those with whom I dealt was afforded by the perfect trust of Molini in my solvency and his unwillingness to allow my father any credit, while the latter actually discharged both my obligations and his own. The elder Molini was himself of Venetian origin, and of a family which gave more than one Doge to the Republic; he always impressed my fancy as the ideal of a decayed Italian grandee. Not only his appearance, but his deportment, was that of a gentleman. He served me excellently well; but true it is that, in spite of his ducal ancestry and exalted traditions, there was the Lombard beneath and not far from the surface. The representative of Doges, this sovereign prince by inheritance and blood, was the only man who ever charged me interest on an overdue account. As to my book, it is familiar enough that it was reprinted in 1860 by Messrs Smith, Elder & Co., and is viewed as the standard English work on the subject, so far as it goes. But I contemplate a third and greatly improved edition, which will carry the narrative to the end. My collections for the task are now in the library, to which I partly gave, and partly sold, them a generation since. They included a copy of the much overestimated _Squittinio della Liberta Veneta_, published at Mirandola in 1612. There are very few now living who recollect, as I do, the library as it originally appeared, when Mr Cochrane was curator, and the institution occupied only the upper part of the house in the Square. I was not a personal subscriber till 1869; but I had the complete range of the shelves _jure patris_, and my loan of an unlimited number of books for an unlimited term was never called in question. I have kept volumes at our house for three years uninterruptedly. In those days there were fewer members, and the demand for the class of publications which I required was extremely limited. One of the staff at the library, a subordinate dignitary, used to dabble a little in books on his own account, and occasionally offered me his purchases. I think that his more distinguished colleagues gradually learned to do the same. But the first-indicated individual, I remember very well, once had on sale a set of fourteen volumes of some neglected publication, for which he submitted a proposal of eighteenpence. He resided at Hammersmith, while I was at Kensington, and I am sure that I do not exaggerate when I say that he carried this merchandise half a dozen times between his abode and St James's Square before I agreed to take the lot off his hands. I thought of Corporal Nym and the lute-case. I was even now beginning to be multifarious and polygonal. I have sketched out in my _Four Generations of a Literary Family_ my apprenticeship to bibliography. The starting-point was about 1857, when Mr Bohn produced his revision of the _Manual_ of Lowndes, 1834, of which Mr F. S. Ellis used to speak as a very creditable performance for a drunken bookseller. My haunt in St James's Square again befriended me. I met with the Heber Catalogue, Herbert's _Typographical Antiquities_, and such like. I was unconsciously shifting my ground; yet it was to be long enough before the new departure took form. I allowed myself ample time to ruminate over the matter, to reconnoitre, and to make notes. A copy of the augmented and revised Lowndes became my memorandum book. The original meagre sketch of the Venetian work had introduced me to Mr Russell Smith the publisher, who undertook it on my father agreeing to contribute to the cost. I acquired the habit of frequenting Smith's shop in Soho Square; I bought a few trifles from him, and in 1858 he took my commission for a book at the Bliss sale--Lord Westmoreland's _Otia Sacra_, 1648--for which my father, to his consternation, learned that I had to give nearly £9. The copy was in the original calf binding, and was one of the very few which were entirely perfect. It was my earliest purchase at an auction. 1858-9-60 passed away--the second edition of the _Venetian History_ appeared--and I, after sundry experiments, finally resolved to cast my lot in with antiquarian literature as an editor and a bibliographer. It is not my present mission to enter into detail respecting my innumerable experiences of a normal character in connection with publishers and booksellers. These are matters of no permanent value or interest to anyone. I have had, in common with the majority of folks similarly situated, my sorrows, my disappointments, my wrongs and my triumphs. _Luctor et Emergo._ I have known what it has been to be unfairly abused and perhaps unfairly commended. I have kept myself proudly and wilfully apart, and under circumstances, of which no other person has ever comprehended or measured the difficulties, I have held my ground, although once or twice the keel of my dingy has grazed the rocks. CHAPTER II I survey the Ground before I start--I contemplate a New British Bibliography--Richard Heber--His Extraordinary Acquirements--His Vast Library--His Manuscript Notes in the Books--A High Estimate of Heber as a Scholar and a Reader--He eclipses all Other Collectors at Home and Abroad--A Sample or so of His Flyleaf Memoranda--A Few very Interesting Books noticed--A _Historiette_--Anecdotes of Some Bargains and Discoveries by Him and His Contemporaries--The _Phoenix Nest_ at Sion College--Marlowe's _Dido_--Mystery connected with the Library at Lee Priory--The Oldest Collections of English Plays--A Little Note about Lovelace--Heber's Generosity as a Lender--His Kindness to Dyce--Fate of His Rarest Books--How He obtained some of Them--The Daniel Ballads and Their True History--Result of a Study of _Heber's Catalogue_ and other Sources of Knowledge--The _Handbook_ appears--Mr Frederick Harrison and Sir Walter Besant pay Me Compliments. I soon learned to divide into two camps, as it were, the authorities available to a student of our earlier literature. There were books like those of Dibdin, Brydges, Park, Beloe, Hartshorne and Lowndes, and the auction catalogues, on the one hand, and on the other there were Herbert's _Ames_, Ritson's _Bibliographia Poetica_, and Collier's _Bibliographical Catalogue_, to be reinforced presently by Corser's _Collectanea Anglo-poetica_. These two classes were widely different and immensely unequal. I began by drawing a line of distinction, and by depending for my statements on the second group and type rather than the first. But as I discerned by degrees the difference in too many instances between the books themselves and the account of them in works of reference, and as I studied more and more, at my leisure from other employments, the Heber and a few more capital catalogues, revealing to me the imperfections in the treatment of the whole subject, I commenced, just in the same way as I had done in the case of Venice, revolving in my thought the practicability of improving our bibliographical system, and placing it on a broader and sounder basis. The London Library copy of the _Heber Catalogue_ bears unmistakeable traces of my industrious manipulation in years gone by. I conceived a strong regard for that extraordinary, that unique collection and its accomplished owner. Of his private history I have heard certain anecdotes, which indicate that his life was not a very happy one, nor the end of it very comfortable; but as a scholar, as a bibliographer, and as a benefactor to the cause which he so zealously espoused and on which he lavished a noble fortune, he was a man to whose equal I am unable to refer. I turn again and again to his sale catalogue, and amid much that is dry and monotonous enough I am never weary of perusing the notes, chiefly from his own pen, where he places on permanent record the circumstances, often romantic and fascinating, under which he gained possession of this or that volume. Remarks or memoranda by Mr Payne Collier and others are interspersed; but the interest seems to centre in those of the possessor, which make his personality agreeably conspicuous, and have always struck me as elevating him above the ordinary standard as a collector, if not as entitling him to the highest rank among those of this or any other country. For when we compare his stupendous accumulations of literary memorials of all ages and regions, in print and in manuscript, with those of Harley, Grenville, Miller, Beckford, Spencer, Huth and others, and then set side by side his conversance with the subject-matter in so many cases, and the purely amateurish feeling and grasp of his predecessors, contemporaries, and successors in a vast preponderance of instances, how can we fail to perceive, and forbear to acknowledge, his claim to the first place? I have mentioned elsewhere that Heber was partly instrumental in saving the library of George III. from being sold by the Prince Regent to the Czar. The _Bibliotheca Heberiana_, in thirteen parts, is a work which it is impossible to open at any page without encountering some point of interest or instruction; but undoubtedly the second, fourth and eighth portions contain the notices and information likely to be most attractive to English and English-speaking persons, and it entered not immaterially into my earlier life to study and utilise what I found here. No class of anecdote can be more enduringly valuable in the eyes of the bibliophile than those with which the work under consideration is so unstintingly enriched, and I may not be blamed for exemplifying and justifying by some typical specimens my estimate of Heber's scholarship and energy. If there is a less agreeable side to the question, it is the feeling of regret, in examining the catalogue, that he should not have restricted himself to some range, instead of embracing the entire world of letters, instead of aiming at centralising universality. In Heber book-collecting was not a taste, but a voracious passion. His incomparable library, to a private individual deficient, as he was, in method and arrangement, was of indifferent value; as a public one, if he had chosen to dedicate it to that object, it would have proved a splendid monument to his name for all time, especially if the very numerous duplicates had been exchanged for remaining _desiderata_. My jottings in corroboration of my view are, however, almost exclusively derived from those sections of the catalogue devoted to an account of the early English literature, in which the collection was so marvellously rich. Since this is merely a sort of introductory feature in my little undertaking, and I was desirous of affording some samples of one of my bibliographical primers, I do not deal with technical detail, but limit myself to literary _adversaria_, and to Heber's own personal remarks about his possessions, as distinguished from those of the compilers of the catalogue. Under 'Bevis of Hampton,' Heber notes, 'For an account of the Romance of Bevis see Ritson's _Dissertation_, prefixed to his _Metrical Romances_,' and he copies out what is found there. To his copy of the edition of _Boethius_ in English, printed at the exempt Monastery of Tavistock in 1525, he appends a long memorandum, stating that he had bought it at Forster's sale in 1806 for £7, 17s. 6d., imperfect and ill-bound, and had afterward completed it from a second, which had belonged to Ratcliff and Gough. He refers us to Robert of Gloucester, the _Harleian Catalogue_, and other authorities, states that Lord Bute gave £17, in 1798, for Mason's copy, and estimates his own at about £50. It fetched £63. It might now be worth £250. On Churchyard's _Discourse of the Queenes Maiesties Entertainment in Suffolk and Norfolk_, there is this commentary: 'This must have been printed in 1577-8, because Frobisher returned from his last journey while this book was printing. I have another copy of this tract, corresponding minutely throughout with the present, except in the dedication.... The Address to the Reader differs also, but merely in the Typography.' Of Dekker's _Bellman of London_, 1608, he says, 'I have compared this edition with that of 1612, which corresponds exactly, except that six pages of introductory matter are prefixed, and four pages of canting terms are subjoined, entitled "Operis Peroratio."' To the 'O Per Se O' of the same writer he has attached a still more elaborate account of the readings of various impressions. He appears to have compared all the editions in his hands with remarkable attention and interest. When we come to Gascoigne's _Posies_, 1575, there is a historiette which se
the following are their views as to the terms which should be granted to British subjects of Cape Colony who are now in the field, or who have surrendered, or have been captured since the 12th of April, 1901: With regard to rank and file, that they should all, upon surrender, after giving up their arms, sign a document before the Resident Magistrate of the District in which the surrender takes place, acknowledging themselves guilty of High Treason, and that the punishment to be awarded to them, provided they shall not have been guilty of murder, or other acts contrary to the usages of civilised warfare, should be that they shall not be entitled for life to be registered as voters, or to vote at any Parliamentary Divisional Council, or Municipal election. "With reference to Justices of the Peace and Field Cornets of the Cape Colony, and all other persons holding an official position under the Government of the Cape Colony, or who may occupy the position of Commandant of rebel or burgher forces, they should be tried for High Treason before the ordinary court of the country, or such special court as may be hereafter constituted by Law, the punishment for their offence to be left to the discretion of the Court, with this proviso, that in no case shall the penalty of Death be inflicted. "The Natal Government are of opinion that rebels should be dealt with according to the Law of the Colony." To the Boer, although he had been suffering the manifold miseries of the battlefield for over two years, such terms made peace a tragedy. Bitterness was mixed with his cup of happiness when he found himself once more united to his family. [Footnote A: Rev. Kestell, 'Through Shot and Flames.'] [Illustration: MR. R. MCDONALD.] CHAPTER III. ENGAGEMENTS. And in the hope of freedom they possess All that the contest calls for,--spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts. _Cowper._ With the exception of the Stormberg engagement we do not intend to dwell on the battles of the first part of the campaign. They have already been described by able hands, by men who participated in them, or were in a position to ascertain their true history. By this we do not infer that all accounts are correct, for it requires many eyes to see one battle in all its aspects. Besides, some writers are unconsciously influenced and prejudiced by their national sentiments, and thus fail to do justice to the parties concerned. We shall confine ourselves to the engagements in which we personally took part, and shall record only the more remarkable among them. BATTLE OF STORMBERG. In the beginning of November, 1899, the commandoes of Rouxville, Smithfield, and Bethulie entered the Cape Colony at different points. Having occupied several villages in the Eastern Province, they concentrated towards the end of the month in the Stormbergen. Our tents were pitched on the northern slopes of this mountain range, which runs from east to west, six miles to the north of Molteno. Here we were to have our first lesson in actual fighting; for up to that time we had not encountered any resistance on the part of the enemy. On the 9th of December, the night fixed on by General Gatacre to strike a blow at the Boer forces at Stormberg, Assistant Chief Commandant Grobler left that place with about nine hundred burghers, intending to occupy Steynsburg. The enemy, having heard of their departure, and knowing that our positions were in consequence so much weaker, left that same evening, fully resolved to surprise us, and, if possible, reoccupy the Stormbergen, which were abandoned at the first approach of our commandoes. The object of the British was to attack us on our right flank before dawn, seize our positions and force us to surrender or retreat. On paper this plan presented no difficulties, but its accomplishment was not quite so easy, and proved a dangerous operation. The English general, as we afterwards learnt, had started for the Boer positions at too late an hour to reach them in due time; and, moreover, had lost his way in the darkness of the night, so that the first rays of the rising sun were lighting the majestic mountain tops before he was in position. The "brandwachten"--night pickets--of the Rouxville Commando were already on their way back to the camp, when one of them, who had by chance returned to the top of the mountain, saw, in the shadow of the valley, and on the slopes of the mountain, human forms moving silently onward. One glance of his keen eye assured him that those forms were enemies. Bang! went the first rifle report. The other pickets all rushed back and opened fire as swiftly as they could handle their Mausers. This brought the enemy to a standstill, for they, too, were surprised. In the Boer camp below some of us were still peacefully sleeping, while others were enjoying their first cup of coffee. With the rifle reports came wakefulness and bustle. It did not take us a moment to realise that speed would be our only means of salvation. Should the enemy reach the summit first, disaster and defeat would be our lot. For some minutes it was a scene of confusion. The horses, saddles, bridles, rifles and bandoliers, where were they? Some knew, and had their equipments ready in a moment; others, less careful, did not know, and sought almost frantically for theirs. We made for the mountain and scaled it as swiftly as our feet could carry us. Exhausted and breathless we reached the summit before the enemy. Gatacre's men were now exposed to a somewhat confused fire, which greatly embarrassed them. Subjected to this fire from the summit, some concealed themselves behind the rocks, while others retreated for shelter to a donga not far off. The English battery was then brought into action, and opened a terrific fire on our positions, commanded by only two Krupp guns. So unceasing and accurate was the enemy's fire, that our guns were soon silenced. In a short time some of our burghers fell wounded and a few killed. One of the enemy's guns was taken by mistake too near to our positions, with the result that, in a few minutes, all its horses and most of the gunners were disabled, and the gun passed into our hands. Although exposed to a violent bombardment, we held our ground and repelled the repeated attacks of Gatacre's men, who began to realise that, should their guns not speedily dislodge us, the attack was bound to collapse. After the engagement had lasted an hour and a half we noticed that the enemy began to waver, and was planning a retreat. To their dismay General Grobler now made his appearance with reinforcements. He had encamped that night some nine miles from Stormberg, and on hearing the report of the guns, returned with Commandant du Plooy of Bethulie to assist the Stormberg defenders. On his arrival the enemy, exposed to a cross-fire, ran the risk of being surrounded and captured. There was but one way out of a wretched position--one loophole out of the net. Fortunately for them, Commandant Zwanepoel of Smithfield, who had just given orders to guard this way of escape, was badly wounded while rising to lead on his men. Owing to this mishap his burghers failed to carry out his instructions, thus leaving the way open. Gatacre, seeing that it was a hopeless struggle, abandoned the project of reoccupying Stormberg and sounded the retreat. He was followed up for some distance by Commandant du Plooy, who made a few prisoners and took two ammunition waggons. Weary and thirsty, the English forces re-entered Molteno that evening. They had been baffled in a determined attack. Their losses amounted to about 700, captured, wounded and killed. Those who had taken shelter behind the rocks and in the donga were all made prisoners. They remained there till the rest had retreated, and then hoisted the white flag. One English writer says that they were shamefully forgotten by General Gatacre, who was thus responsible for their loss. Indeed a questionable explanation! Among the wounded were a few officers and some privates, who were seriously injured by their own guns as they tried to seize the Boer positions. Colonel Eagar, one of the wounded, was removed to our hospital, where he breathed his last. In addition to the number of prisoners we also captured two big guns. Our losses amounted to 6 killed and 27 wounded. The attack on the Stormberg positions, if it was boldly conceived, was badly carried out. The English general should have postponed the attack when it dawned upon him that he would not reach the enemy's positions before daybreak; and he should have used the knowledge, common to most soldiers, that it is best to attack a foe's weakest side. This was not done at Stormberg. We, too, suffered from ill-advised action--or rather, inaction. For we had had the opportunity of capturing, if not all, most of Gatacre's men, with all their guns, and we neglected it! The victory would have been complete if we had only followed up our advantage. In those early days, however, some of our leaders regarded it as rather sinful to harass a retreating enemy. SANNA'S POST. On the occupation of Bloemfontein some of the burghers, discouraged and despondent, left for their homes. Lord Roberts's proclamation, promising protection to all who should lay down their arms and settle quietly on their farms, enticed many to remain at home. Most, however, changed their minds after a few weeks' rest and returned to their commandoes. It was then, after they had rallied again, that General De Wet, on the eve of the 28th of March, left Brandfort with a commando 1500 strong and moved in the direction of Winburg. De Wet had made up his mind to surprise the English garrison which guarded the Bloemfontein Waterworks at Sanna's Post, and so cut off the water supply of Bloemfontein. With that object in view he made his movements thither by night, so as to keep the enemy in the dark as to his plans. Neither were these disclosed to the burghers, who were naturally anxious to know where they were going and what they were to do next. On his way De Wet learnt that General Broadwood, dreading an attack of Commandant Olivier, had quitted Ladybrand and was marching on Bloemfontein with a strong force. This information was rather disconcerting, for now he had not only to reckon with the garrison, but to be ready for an engagement with a column 2000 strong, which might come to the relief of the garrison at any moment. In case of such an emergency, De Wet divided his forces into two parts. He placed one division--1050 strong with four guns--under the control of Generals Cronje, Froneman, Wessels, and Piet De Wet, with instructions to occupy the positions east of the Modder River and directly opposite the Waterworks, so as to check Broadwood, should he come to the rescue of the garrison. Taking the remaining 350 burghers he set out to Koorn Spruit, a brook which flows into the Modder River. Arrived there, he carefully concealed his horses and men at a point where the road from the Waterworks to Bloemfontein passes through the brook. The other generals were to shell the garrison at daybreak, while he would fall on the troops if they tried to escape to Bloemfontein _viâ_ Koorn Spruit. As the Boer forces were getting into their different positions during the night, Broadwood, who had left Thaba 'Nchu at nightfall, arrived that very night at Sanna's Post. But we were each unconscious of the other's presence. The next morning at daybreak we saw a waggon and a large number of cattle and sheep not far off the brook. The Kaffir drivers informed us that the British column had just arrived at Sanna's Post. As soon as we could see some distance ahead, we observed the enemy now hardly 3000 paces off. A few minutes later our guns began to play upon the unsuspecting British forces. What a scene of confusion! Broadwood had fallen into a trap and was between two fires. The whole column, with guns, waggons and carts, made hurriedly for the drift where De Wet and his men lay hidden. Nearer they came. At length a cart entered the drift. The occupants, husband and wife, looked bewildered on seeing armed Boers all around them in the bed of the brook. De Wet immediately ordered two of his adjutants to mount the cart and drive on. Then in quick succession followed a number of carts and vehicles, all driven by Englishmen from Thaba 'Nchu. These were ordered to proceed ahead and warned not to make any signals to the enemy. So well was everything arranged, that the first batch of troops that entered the drift had not the slightest suspicion that there was something wrong. Absolutely abashed were they on finding themselves among us; the men raised their hands in surrender at the cry of "Hands up!" In this way we disarmed 200 without wasting a bullet. But this was not to go on for long; there came an officer from the rear who was determined to upset our plans and disturb our peace seriously. He, at least, was not going to surrender in this fashion. On being asked for his rifle he said, with marked resoluteness, "Be d----d! I won't," and called on his men to fire. He drew his sword, but before he could use it he was no more among the living. The battle had begun. Scarcely 100 paces from the banks of the brook stood five of the enemy's guns and more than 100 waggons. Some 400 paces from these two more guns had stopped. The enemy had withdrawn for cover about 1300 yards to the station on the Dewetsdorp-Bloemfontein railway. [Illustration: SANNA'S POST--Plan of Battle.] It was while they were retreating to this station that the greatest havoc was wrought among them. Across the open plain, with no cover at all, they had to retreat, and before they reached the place of shelter the ground between the brook and the station was thickly strewn with their dead and wounded. It was, indeed, a ghastly scene. The burghers stood erect and fired on the retreating foe as though they were so much game. So quickly did the waggons and guns wheel round that many were overturned. To remove them was impossible. In vain did the English try to save the guns. They succeeded, however, in getting two to the station house, where they had rallied. With these they bombarded us for some time; but owing to our sheltered positions only two men were wounded. The Boer forces on the east of the Modder River had in the meanwhile been doing their best to come to the assistance of General De Wet. But their progress was much retarded by the uneven veldt and dongas through which they had to ride. After three hours, spent in fruitless attempts, they forded the river, attacked the enemy with great energy, and succeeded in putting them to flight, and this brought the battle to an end. We made 480 captives. What their losses in wounded and killed were is difficult to estimate. In the evening, when all was over, we went to the house where the wounded were gathered, and there counted in one room alone 96 cases. Their own report made their losses 350 dead and wounded. Besides, 7 guns and 117 waggons fell into our hands. Our loss consisted in 3 killed and 5 wounded. On looking at the bodies of the dead and listening to the groanings of the wounded, one was forced to say what a pity that the trap was discovered, that one brave man, through his very bravery, prevented the bloodless capture of his column and his general. MOSTERT'S HOEK. The victory at Sanna's Post was soon followed up by another success over the British arms. On the evening of the eventful day at the Waterworks De Wet handed the command over to Generals A. Cronje and Piet De Wet, and, having taken three of his staff, he went in the direction of Dewetsdorp on a reconnoitring expedition. The following day he learnt that a party of the enemy had occupied Dewetsdorp. On receiving the report his mind was made up: these too must be captured. He was then thirty miles away from the commandoes, but instantly despatched a report to us to come post-haste so as to attack the enemy at Dewetsdorp or intercept them, should they try to join the main body, which was advancing under Gatacre on Reddersburg. In the meanwhile the burghers of that district, who had gone to their farms on the fall of Bloemfontein, were commandeered. With these, some 120, who were almost all unarmed, De Wet started for Dewetsdorp to watch the movements of the British. Early on the 2nd of April the enemy left Dewetsdorp, and resumed their march to Reddersburg. While marching De Wet kept them all the while under surveillance. He was moving on one of their flanks, parallel to them with an intervening distance of six miles. They were evidently not aware that he was so close to them. As soon as we received the report concerning the British, we left Sanna's Post in haste. We required no urging on. For were we not encouraged by our recent success, and was there not every chance of achieving another? We left Sanna's Post a little before sunset, and that whole night we rode on without off-saddling once. We did not halt save for a few minutes to rest our horses. Early the following morning a third report, pressing us to increase our speed and leave behind those whose horses were too tired to proceed rapidly, reached us. De Wet was most anxious to occupy a ridge in front of the enemy, between the farms Mostert's Hoek and Sterkfontein. The road leading to Reddersburg from Dewetsdorp traverses this ridge. Hence it was absolutely necessary to seize it before the enemy if we were to intercept them. So on we went, leaving the weary and exhausted behind to follow on as soon as possible. About 9 A.M. Generals Froneman and De Villiers, with 350 men, met De Wet, who was still moving parallel to the British column, obscured from their view by a rising of the ground. The ridge referred to already loomed now in the distance. We were all fiercely anxious to seize it before the enemy. For it was a question of life and death who was to be first there. But our horses were too tired, and began to fall out rapidly. We were still four miles from the ridge when the English began to occupy the eastern extremity of it. We moved on to the western extremity, and reached it in time. The enemy, however, had the advantage of the best positions, but was fortunately cut off from the water. We were resolved to hem them in completely, for we knew that, if no relieving forces arrived, they would be compelled by thirst alone, if nothing else, to surrender. Before commencing the fight, De Wet, anxious as usual to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, sent the following note to the commanding officer:-- "SIR,--I am here with 500 men, and am every moment expecting reinforcements with three Krupps, against which you will not be able to hold out. I therefore advise you, in order to prevent bloodshed, to surrender." The messenger returned under a storm of bullets, for no sooner had he left the English lines than they opened fire on him. How he was missed seemed inexplicable. The answer he brought back was: "I am d----d if I surrender." On receiving this reply firing at once commenced. Positions nearer to the enemy were gradually occupied. Towards sunset our guns arrived, and were brought to bear upon the enemy. But darkness soon set in, and firing ceased on both sides. To make sure that the enemy would not escape during the night, we occupied positions all round them, and in the darkness of the night silently stole as near to their positions as was possible. The next morning, as soon as the glimmer of dawn revealed the Mauser sights to our eyes, the firing started with renewed vigour. We had drawn so close to the enemy that when our guns were brought in action we could, under cover of these, storm their positions. The men boldly rushed up to the enemy's skanzes, and some burghers even seized their rifles by the barrels, as they presented these over the bulwarks, calling out, "Hands up! hands up!" At 11 A.M. the white flag was hoisted. The commanding officer, who had refused to surrender, was mortally wounded. Three hundred and seventy were sent to the Transvaal as prisoners-of-war, while their wounded and killed numbered 92. Among the English we found five Boer prisoners-of-war, who were likewise exposed to our firing. Imagine their joy in being released! They greeted us with the ejaculation: "Thank God we are free!" We mourned the death of Veldt Cornet du Plessis of Kroonstad, who fell after the white flag had been hoisted. That such mistakes should occur! Six or seven burghers were wounded. LADYBRAND VISITED. Towards the end of July, 1900, Prinsloo's surrender took place. Those of us who escaped the trap laid left for Heilbron with the hope of meeting De Wet's commando there. Near Heilbron we heard the dismal news that he was forced over the Vaal and was being driven northward by some 40,000 troops. This, led us to change our course and move in the direction of Winburg. On the morning of the 27th of August we made an unsuccessful attack on Winburg. Olivier, with 27 men, got captured. The burden and responsibility of leading others was then first placed upon my shoulders. I was elected commandant. Frustrated in our attempt to seize Winburg, we resolved to attack Ladybrand, which was not strongly garrisoned. Having encamped at Koeranerberg--a mountain 30 miles west of Ladybrand--we mustered our forces, took three guns and about 800 burghers, and left for the village. It was a bitterly cold night--one of those nights which one can hardly forget. We rode till sunrise without off-saddling once. At 9 P.M. we halted to prepare a hasty supper. How we enjoyed that! A few days before, the enemy had unwillingly provided us with sugar, coffee, milk, butter and cheese. Owing to the intense cold the men that had no overcoats wrapped themselves up in their blankets, in which they appeared before the village just as the sun was rising. Commandant Hertzog, on our arrival, despatched a messenger under a flag of truce to demand the surrender of the garrison. In reply he received a message to the effect that it would be much better if he would come in himself and lay down arms; that would put an end to the business much quicker. On receiving this answer we at once began to bombard the forts of the enemy, with the result that almost all their horses took to flight and fell into our hands, while some of them were wounded and killed. General Fourie, Commandant Nieuwhoudt and myself, with a number of daring volunteers, made for the village. We reached a few houses safely, and under cover of these we succeeded in forcing the enemy to retreat to their forts and skanzes at the foot of Platrand--a mountain to the south-east of the village and very near to it. Gradually we occupied more and more of the village, and before sunset we were in possession of the whole of it. The enemy was, however, so strongly entrenched that, in spite of their small numbers, it was impossible to compel them to capitulate without incurring the risk of sustaining heavy losses. For at the base of the mountain are natural forts and grottoes, against which lyddite shells would spend their force in vain. All we could do was to keep the foe in their haunts by directing such a fire against them that they could not venture even to peep out. In doing this the commandoes could requisition--loot, as some would say--what they required. During the night the enemy shifted and occupied other positions. At daybreak they took vengeance on us from these positions. It did not take a long time to silence them for the rest of the day. The following two days we remained in the village, keeping the enemy at bay. We had hoped that eventually their rations would run short, and thus bring about their surrender. Unfortunately our hopes were not to be realised; they were only too well provided. Then, again, we thought that thirst might prove an irresistible force in our favour; but in this, too, we erred, for in their grottoes was abundant water. On the second day of the attack we placed one of our guns in the centre of the village, whence we shelled the enemy's forts, but all to no purpose. On the evening of the third day we heard that relieving forces were at hand, and as we had received a message from De Wet to meet him in Bothaville district, we left Ladybrand at dusk. During the three days' fighting only a few burghers were wounded. As the enemy fired at random into the village, some of the inhabitants were also injured. A young man was mortally wounded, while a bullet shattered the arm of a woman. Our efforts were rewarded by the seizure of the enemy's horses, which we valued even more than their persons. The horses we could keep and use, the men we had to dismiss again. We returned to the laager well supplied with clothes and foodstuffs. But for some traitors, who assisted the enemy, the garrison would in all probability have fallen. These, dreading the results of a capitulation, held out until relieved. As this was our first visit to Ladybrand since its occupation, the joy of the Boer families in meeting relatives and burghers was indeed great. They welcomed them with open arms, and during their short stay it was their delight to minister unto them. We shall ever gratefully remember the hearty reception which was extended to us by the Ladybrand Africanders. Were they not prosecuted after our departure for welcoming and receiving their kith and kin? MURRAY'S COLUMN. Compelled to abandon the Cape Colony in August, we went to Gastron District, a Free State village situated on the Basutoland border. There we intended to rest our horses for a time; but no sooner had we entered the district than the English column came pouring into it like so many birds of prey. They had concentrated in that district and in the adjoining ones to clear them, _i.e._, to remove or destroy whatever could be removed or destroyed. During this time we often came in conflict with the enemy. It was impossible to avoid that; they were on every side. For miles and miles it was one column on the other. We could hardly engage any of these columns successfully during the day, for no sooner had the fight begun than reinforcements would come from all directions, making our position quite untenable. It was in such circumstances that we planned a night attack on one of the English camps nine miles east of Gastron. We had engaged the enemy on several occasions without desirable results. Our limited supply of ammunition was gradually exhausted. Come what would, we were bound to strike a blow at the enemy, so as to fill our bandoliers once more. The night was the only time we could hope to succeed. Reinforcements would not then scatter us before we had achieved our object. At 11 P.M. on the 19th of September, 1901, after a day's hard fighting from early morn till sunset, we started, 70 men in all, with the intention of attacking a column encamped at the foot of a hill. It was a very cold night, and the moon, casting her pale light across the frosty plains, was sinking in the west. The column was about eight miles off. As we approached it, deep silence reigned. Not a word, not a whisper was heard. Ah! if we could but succeed in passing the enemy's pickets unobserved, the victory would be ours, the battle half won. So we held our breath and our tongues as well, and moved onward. Indeed, we have succeeded! We are past the pickets, and that unnoticed! The hill, where the slumbering foe is encamped, is in our possession. Having dismounted, the burghers were arranged in fighting order. Commandant Louis Wessels was placed on one flank, Commandant De Bruijn on the other. Before commencing the work of destruction, we briefly admonished and encouraged the men to be true to each other and to fight as befits men. We pointed out to them that our success would depend entirely upon our united efforts. For a long address there was no time, so we proceeded to the camp. The moon has set. Down below the enemy is fast asleep. Soon, too soon, their midnight slumbers will be sadly disturbed. Many of them will not see the dawn of another day. They are enjoying their last sleep. Silently we moved on to the British column, which gave no signs whatever that our approach was suspected. As it was very dark, the men were ordered not to advance ahead of one another, for fear of accidents, and also, if possible, to march right through the camp, so as to make sure of all. Commandant L. Wessels, famous for his dauntlessness, was the first to open fire by lodging a shot in one of the enemy's tents. The rest followed, and then a shower of bullets, thick and fast, poured in upon the surprised and embarrassed foe. The men aimed low and fired with deadly precision. The flashes of the rifles leapt forth like lightning freaks in the darkness. Never before had I witnessed such a scene. In a quarter of an hour all was over and the whole camp taken. Two Maxims were destroyed and an Armstrong was taken along with us. What havoc was played in that brief quarter of an hour! The wounded mules, horses and men lay groaning side by side. Colonel Murray, Captain Murray, and almost all the other officers, fell in the action, and several privates passed into the unseen world that fatal night. So terrific was the firing that entire teams of mules were shot down where they stood tied to the ropes. As the veldt was strewn with the many wounded and the dead, we could not put the waggons on fire, lest the grass should catch fire and consume the fallen in battle. We took what we could remove and left the camp--not exactly as we found it, but a little poorer. The enemy, though attacked off their guard, defended themselves bravely. We shall not forget the gallant conduct of the officer who had charge of the Maxim. Distinctly we could hear him say, "Get the Maxim into action. Don't be afraid, boys. Go for them! Go for them!" Brave man! He, too, fell by the side of his Maxim, which was charged and seized by Commandant Wessels. As to the conduct of the burghers, we need only remark that their good behaviour pleased us exceedingly. There was no reason to urge them on; not one retreated. Though only a handful as compared to the enemy, they fought well till the foe was vanquished. One of them, young Liebenberg (familiarly known by the name of Matie) from Murraysburg, was shot through the head and succumbed at once. Another, young Hugo from Smithfield, was wounded in the foot. We had no other casualties. The attack on Murray's column was to a great extent incidental. Near his was another very much smaller camp. When I left that night it was with the intention to attack this smaller camp, for I had only 65 men at my disposal. In the darkness I lost my way, and so lighted on Murray's column. It was unfortunate for them, but for ourselves we could have wished for no better accident. In the Colonel's letter-bag we found a letter addressed to his wife, dated 19th September, 1901, and written the very day before his death. We purposed to forward that letter, but the following day the bag was retaken. Not only was it taken, but also the gun, while 20 burghers were captured and one--Myburgh--was killed. We were again surprised. Inconstant are the fortunes of war. JAMES TOWN. The villages in possession of the enemy were at length so thoroughly fortified that it was well-nigh impossible to seize them without sustaining great losses. Though they seemed impregnable, yet we were sometimes compelled by sheer necessity to attack them. Beyond expectation we now and again succeeded in inducing the garrison to surrender. Such was the case at James Town, a village in the Eastern Province of the Cape Colony. Late one afternoon in the month of July, 1901, I set out to this village to reconnoitre it in person. Unobserved, I reached the summit of a small hill, about a mile from it. Through my field-glasses I carefully noted the various forts, and there and then planned an attack. The next morning I knew exactly what to do. At 2 A.M. Commandant Myburgh, Commandant Lötter, and myself, with some 60 men, were in the saddle and on our way to James Town. What will be the issue? Shall we succeed? Can we surprise the enemy? Such questions we put to ourselves as we rode on in the darkness and silence of the night to accomplish the work of destruction. The spot we had in view was a kopje, situated to the north of the village. Here the enemy's camp was located. As this kopje was the key to the village, it was necessarily very strongly fortified. We knew that if we could only occupy that hill, the rest would be easy work. Before dawn we were close to the camp. A few minutes more and we shall grimly salute our sleeping brethren. Silently we approach them. We are keenly on the alert for the pickets, whom, least of all, we wished to disturb. Behold! something in the darkness--what may that be? To be sure, two human forms! Hush! they are slumbering. Noiselessly we draw nearer, reach them, seize their rifles, and then--wake them. They are our first prisoners; our way to the camp is open, safe and sure. On we moved until stopped, not by a sentinel--it was much too cold that night to expect an attack--but by a network of barbed wires, by which the hill and camp were fenced in. Quickly the wires were cut. That done, some of the burghers charged the tents, while the rest made for the enemy's trenches on top of the hill. How awful a surprise! Taken unawares, the foe ran to their strongholds, but only to meet death there, for these were already in possession of our men. Myburgh, a Gastron burgher, so very brave, was the first and only one to receive a mortal wound--other men were slightly wounded in that hand-to-hand struggle. At dawn the hill and the camp were in our possession, for the enemy, after a loss of 9 killed and wounded, thought it best to resist no longer. With the occupation of the hill it was possible to reach the village. The British allowed the burghers to pass their skanzes without shooting at them. But no sooner had they entered the village than a heavy fire from the forts was directed against them. They
-five dollars with which to clothe herself during the year. I shall not go to the wedding. I dislike weddings and funerals. There should be no periods in life, only commas. When a man dies he doesn’t mind the period; he can’t see it. But he need not remind himself of it. You can go.” Bessie was married in a pretty white gown, made from an old one of her mother’s, and St. Mark’s had never held a daintier bride. No one was present but Mordaunt’s parents, the professor, who was radiant, and Hermia, who was the only bridesmaid. But it was a fair spring morning, the birds were singing in an eager choir, and the altar had been decorated with a few greens and flowers by the professor and Hermia. At the conclusion of the service the clergyman patted Bessie on the head and told her he was sure she would be happy, and the girl forgot her uncle’s benediction. “Bessie,” said Hermia an hour later, as they were walking toward their new home, “I will never be married until I can have a dress covered with stars like those Hans Andersen’s princesses carried about in a nutshell when they were disguised as beggar-maids, and until I can be married in a grand cathedral and have a great organ just pealing about me, and a white-robed choir singing like seraphs, and roses to walk on——” “Hermia,” said Bessie dreamily, “I wish you would not talk so much, and you shouldn’t wish for things you can never have.” “I will have them,” exclaimed the child under her breath. “I will! I will!” * * * * * CHAPTER III. BROOKLYN AND BABYLON. Thirteen years passed. Bessie had three of her desired children and a nice little flat in Brooklyn. Reverses and trials had come, but on the whole Mordaunt was fairly prosperous, and they were happy. The children did not wear white dresses and blue sashes; they were generally to be seen in stout ginghams and woolen plaids, but they were chubby, healthy, pretty things, and their mother was as proud of them as if they had realized every detail of her youthful and ambitious dreams. Bessie’s prettiness had gone with her first baby, as American prettiness is apt to do, but the sweetness of her nature remained and shone through her calm eyes and the lines of care about her mouth. She had long since forgotten to sigh over the loss of her beauty, she had so little time; but she still remembered to give a deft coil to her hair, and her plain little gowns were never dowdy. She knew nothing about modern decorative art, and had no interest in hard-wood floors or dados; but her house was pretty and tasteful in the old-fashioned way, and in her odd moments she worked at cross-stitch. And Hermia? Poor girl! She had not found the beauty her sister had lost. Her hair was still the same muddy blonde-brown, although with a latent suggestion of color, and she still brushed it back with the severity of her childhood. Nothing, she had long since concluded, could beautify her, and she would waste no time in the attempt. She was a trifle above medium height, and her thin figure bent a little from the waist. Her skin was as sallow as of yore, and her eyes were dull. She had none of Bessie’s sweetness of expression; her cold, intellectual face just escaped being sullen. Her health was what might be expected of a girl who exercised little and preferred thought to sleep. She had kept the promise made the night she had scratched her sister’s face; during the past fifteen years no one had seen her lose her self-control for a moment. She was as cold as a polar night, and as impassive as an Anglo-American. She was very kind to her sister, and did what she could to help her. She taught the children; and, though with much private rebellion, she frequently made their clothes and did the marketing. Frank and Bessie regarded her with awe and distant admiration, but the children liked her. The professor had taught her until he could teach her no more, and then had earned his subsistence by reading aloud to John Suydam. A year or two before, he had departed for less material duties, with few regrets. But, if Hermia no longer studied, she belonged to several free libraries and read with unflagging vigor. Of late she had taken a deep interest in art, and she spent many hours in the picture galleries of New York. Moreover, she grasped any excuse which took her across the river. With all the fervor of her silent soul she loved New York and hated Brooklyn. She was sitting in the dining-room one evening, helping Lizzie, the oldest child, with her lessons. Lizzie was sleepy, and was droning through her multiplication table, when she happened to glance at her aunt. “You are not paying attention,” she exclaimed, triumphantly; “I don’t believe you’ve heard a word of that old table, and I’m not going to say it over again.” Hermia, whose eyes had been fixed vacantly on the fire, started and took the book from Lizzie’s lap. “Go to bed,” she said; “you are tired, and you know your tables very well.” Lizzie, who was guiltily conscious that she had never known her tables less well, accepted her release with alacrity, kissed her aunt good-night, and ran out of the room. Hermia went to the window and opened it. It looked upon walls and fences, but lineaments were blotted out to-night under a heavy fall of snow. Beyond the lower roofs loomed the tall walls of houses on the neighboring street, momentarily discernible through the wind-parted storm. Hermia pushed the snow from the sill, then closed the window with a sigh. The snow and the night were the two things in her life that she loved. They were projected into her little circle from the grand whole of which they were parts, and were in no way a result of her environment. She went into the sitting-room and sat down by the table. She took up a book and stared at its unturned pages for a quarter of an hour. Then she raised her eyes and looked about her. Mordaunt was sitting in an easy-chair by the fire, smoking a pipe and reading a magazine story aloud to his wife, who sat near him, sewing. Lizzie had climbed on his lap, and with her head against his shoulder was fast asleep. Hermia took up a pencil and made a calculation on the fly-leaf of her book. It did not take long, but the result was a respectable sum—4,620. Allowing for her sister’s brief illnesses and for several minor interruptions, she had looked upon that same scene, varied in trifling details, just about 4,620 times in the past thirteen years. She rose suddenly and closed her book. “Good-night,” she said, “I am tired. I am going to bed.” Mordaunt muttered “good-night” without raising his eyes; but Bessie turned her head with an anxious smile. “Good-night,” she said; “I think you need a tonic. And would you mind putting Lizzie to bed? I am so interested in this story. Frank, carry her into the nursery.” Hermia hesitated a moment, as if she were about to refuse, but she turned and followed Frank into the next room. She undressed the inert, protesting child and tucked her in bed. Then she went to her room and locked the door. She lit the gas mechanically and stood still for a moment. Then she threw herself on the bed, and flung herself wildly about. After a time she clasped her hands tightly about the top of her head and gazed fixedly at the ceiling. Her family would not have recognized her in that moment. Her disheveled hair clung about her flushed face, and through its tangle her eyes glittered like those of a snake. For a few moments her limbs were as rigid as if the life had gone out of them. Then she threw herself over on her face and burst into a wild passion of weeping. The hard, inward sobs shook her slender body as the screw shakes the steamer. “How I hate it! How I hate it! How I hate it!” she reiterated, between her paroxysms. “O God! is there nothing—nothing—nothing in life but this? Nothing but hideous monotony—and endless days—and thousands and thousands of hours that are as alike as grains of sand?” She got up suddenly and filling a basin with water thrust her head into it. The water was as cold as melting ice, and when she had dried her hair she no longer felt as if her brain were trying to force its way through the top of her skull. Hermia, like many other women, lived a double life. On the night when, under the dramatic illusion of Monte Cristo, her imagination had awakened with a shock which rent the film of childhood from her brain, she had found a dream-world of her own. The prosaic never suspected its existence; the earth’s millions who dwelt in the same world cared nothing for any kingdom in it but their own; she was sovereign of a vast domain wrapped in the twilight mystery of dreamland, but peopled with obedient subjects conceived and molded in her waking brain. She walked stoically through the monotonous round of her daily life; she took a grim and bitter pleasure in fulfilling every duty it developed, and she never neglected the higher duty she owed her intellect; but when night came, and the key was turned in her door, she sprang from the life she abhorred into the world of her delight. She would fight sleep off for hours, for sleep meant temporary death, and the morning a return to material existence. A ray of light from the street-lamp struggled through the window, and, fighting with the shadows, filled the ugly, common little room with glamour and illusion. The walls swept afar and rolled themselves into marble pillars that towered vaporously in the gloom. Beyond, rooms of state and rooms of pleasure ceaselessly multiplied. On the pictured floors lay rugs so deep that the echo of a lover’s footfall would never go out into eternity. From the enameled walls sprang a vaulted ceiling painted with forgotten art. Veils of purple stuffs, gold-wrought, jewel-fringed, so dense that the roar of a cannon could not have forced its way into the stillness of that room, masked windows and doors. From beyond those pillars, from the far perspective of those ever-doubling chambers came the plash of waters, faint and sweet as the music of the bulbul. The bed, aloft on its dais, was muffled in lace which might have fringed a mist. Hidden in the curving leaves of pale-tinted lotus flowers were tiny flames of light, and in an urn of agate burned perfumed woods. * * * For this girl within her unseductive frame had all the instincts of a beautiful woman, for the touch of whose lips men would dig the grave of their life’s ambitions. That kiss it was the passionate cry of her heart to give to lips as warm and imploring as her own. She would thrust handfuls of violets between her blankets, and imagine herself lying by the sea in a nest of fragrance. Her body longed for the softness of cambric and for silk attire; her eye for all the beauty that the hand of man had ever wrought. When wandering among those brain-born shadows of hers, she was beautiful, of course; and, equally inferable, those dreams had a hero. This lover’s personality grew with her growth and changed with every evolution of the mind that had given it birth; but, strangely enough, the lover himself had retained his proportions and lineaments from the day of his creation. Is it to be supposed that Hermia was wedded peacefully to her ideal, and that together they reigned over a vast dominion of loving and respectful subjects? Not at all. If there was one word in the civilized vocabulary that Hermia hated it was that word “marriage.” To her it was correlative with all that was commonplace; with a prosaic grind that ate and corroded away life and soul and imagination; with a dreary and infinite monotony. Bessie Mordaunt’s peaceful married life was hideous to her sister. Year after year,—neither change nor excitement, neither rapture nor anguish, nor romance nor poetry, neither ambition nor achievement, nor recognition nor power! Nothing of mystery, nothing of adventure; neither palpitation of daring nor quiver of secrecy; nothing but kisses of calm affection, babies, and tidies! 4,620 evenings of calm, domestic bliss; 4,620 days of placid, housewifely duties! To Hermia such an existence was a tragedy more appalling than relentless immortality. Bessie had her circle of friends, and in each household the tragedy was repeated; unless, mayhap, the couple were ill-mated, when the tragedy became a comedy, and a vulgar one at that. Hermia’s hatred of marriage sprang not from innate immorality, but from a strongly romantic nature stimulated to abnormal extreme by the constant, small-beer wave-beats of a humdrum, uniform, ever-persisting, abhorred environment. If no marriage-bells rang over her cliffs and waters and through her castle halls, her life was more ideally perfect than any life within her ken which drowsed beneath the canopy of law and church. Regarding the subject from the point of view to which her nature and conditions had focused her mental vision, love needed the exhilarating influence of liberty, the stimulation of danger, and the enchantment of mystery. Of men practically she knew little. There were young men in her sister’s circle, and Mordaunt occasionally brought home his fellow clerks; but Hermia had never given one of them a thought. They were limited and commonplace, and her reputation for intellectuality had the effect of making them appear at their worst upon those occasions when circumstances compelled them to talk to her. And she had not the beauty to win forgiveness for her brains. She appreciated this fact and it embittered her, little as she cared for her brother’s uninteresting friends, and sent her to the depths of her populous soul. The books she read had their influence upon that soul-population. The American novel had much the same effect upon her as the married life of her sister and her sister’s friends. She cared for but little of the literature of France, and the best of it deified love and scorned the conventions. She reveled in mediæval and ancient history and loved the English poets, and both poets and history held aloft, on pillars of fragrant and indestructible wood, her own sad ideality. * * * * * CHAPTER IV. IN THE GREEN ROOM OF LITERATURE. Hermia’s imagination in its turn demanded a safety-valve; she found it necessary, occasionally, to put her dreams into substance and sequence. In other words she wrote. Not prose. She had neither the patience nor the desire. Nor did she write poetry. She believed that no woman, save perhaps time-enveloped Sappho, ever did, and she had no idea of adding her pseudonym to the list of failures. When her brain became overcharged, she dashed off verses, wildly romantic, and with a pen heated white. There was a wail and an hysterical passion in what she wrote that took the hearts of a large class of readers by storm, and her verses found prompt acceptance by the daily and weekly papers. She had as yet aspired to nothing higher. She was distinctly aware that her versification was crude and her methods faulty. To get her verses into the magazines they must be fairly correct and almost proper, and both attainments demanded an amount of labor distasteful to her impatient nature. Of late, scarcely a week had passed without the appearance of several metrical contributions over the signature “Quirus;” and the wail and the passion were growing more piercing and tumultuous. The readers were moved, interested, or amused, according to their respective natures. The morning after the little arithmetical problem, Hermia arose early and sat down at her desk. She drew out a package of MS. and read it over twice, then determined to have a flirtation with the magazines. These verses were more skillful from a literary point of view than any of her previous work, because, for the sake of variety, she had plagiarized some good work of an English poet. The story was a charming one, dramatic, somewhat fragmentary, and a trifle less caloric than her other effusions. She revised it carefully, and mailed it, later in the day, to one of the leading New York magazines. Two weeks passed and no answer came. Then, snatching at anything which offered its minimum of distraction, she determined to call on the editor. She had never presented herself to an editor before, fearing his betrayal of her identity; so well had she managed that not even Bessie knew she wrote; but she regarded the magazine editor from afar as an exalted being, and was willing to put her trust in him. She felt shy about acknowledging herself the apostle of beauty and the priestess of passion, but ennui conquered diffidence, and one morning she presented herself at the door of her editor’s den. The editor, who was glancing over proofs, raised his eyes as she entered, and did not look overjoyed to see her. Nevertheless, he politely asked her to be seated. Poor Hermia by this time was cold with fright; her knees were shaking. She was used to self-control, however, and in a moment managed to remark that she had come to inquire about the fate of her poem. The editor bowed, extracted a MS. from a pigeon-hole behind him, and handed it to her. “I cannot use it,” he said, “but I am greatly obliged to you, nevertheless. We are always grateful for contributions.” He had a pleasant way of looking upon the matter as settled, but an ounce or two of Hermia’s courage had returned, and she was determined to get something more out of the interview than a glimpse of an editor. “I am sorry,” she said, “but of course I expected it. Would you mind telling me what is the matter with it?” Editors will not take the trouble to write a criticism of a returned manuscript, but they are more willing to air their views verbally than people imagine. It gives them an opportunity to lecture and generalize, and they enjoy doing both. “Certainly not,” said the editor in question. “Your principal fault is that you are too highly emotional. Your verses would be unhealthy reading for my patrons. This is a family magazine, and has always borne the reputation of incorruptible morality. It would not do for us to print matter which a father might not wish his daughter to read. The American young girl should be the conscientious American editor’s first consideration.” This interview was among the anguished memories of Hermia’s life. After her return home she thought of so many good things she might have said. This was one which she uttered in the seclusion of her bed-chamber that evening: (“You are perfectly right,” with imperturbability. “‘Protect the American young girl lest she protect not herself’ should be the motto and the mission of the American editor!”) When she was at one with the opportunity, she asked: “And my other faults?” “Your other faults?” replied the unconscious victim of lagging wit. “There is a strain of philosophy in your mind which unfits you for magazine work. A magazine should be light and not too original. People pick it up after the work of the day; they want to be amused and entertained, they do not want to think. Anything new, anything out of the beaten track, anything which does not suggest old and familiar favorites, anything which requires a mental effort to grasp, annoys them and affects the popularity of the magazine. Of course we like originality and imagination—do not misunderstand me; what we do not want is the complex, the radically original, or the deep. We have catered to a large circle of readers for a great many years; we know exactly what they want, and they know exactly what to expect. When they see the name of a new writer in our pages they feel sure that whatever may be the freshness and breeziness of the newcomer, he (or she) will not call upon them to witness the tunneling of unhewn rock—so to speak. Do you grasp my meaning?” (Hermia at home in her bed-chamber: “I see. Your distinctions are admirable. You want originality with the sting extracted, soup instead of blood, an exquisite etching rather than the bold sweep and color of brush and oils. Your contributors must say an old thing in a new way, or a new thing in so old a way that the shock will be broken, that the reader will never know he has harbored a new-born babe. Your little lecture has been of infinite value to me. I shall ponder over it until I evolve something worthy of the wary parent and the American Young Girl.”) Hermia in the editor’s den: “Oh, yes; thank you very much. But I am afraid I shall never do anything you will care for. Good-morning.” The next day she sent the manuscript to another magazine, and, before she could reasonably expect a reply, again invaded the sanctity of editorial seclusion. The genus editor amused her; she resolved to keep her courage by the throat and study the arbiters of literary destinies. It is probable that, if her second editor had not been young and very gracious, her courage would again have flown off on deriding wings; as it was, it did not even threaten desertion. She found the editor engaged in nothing more depressing than the perusal of a letter. He smiled most promisingly when she announced herself as the mysterious “Quirus,” but folded his hands deprecatingly. “I am sorry I cannot use that poem,” he said, “but I am afraid it is impossible. It has decided merit, and, in view of the awful stuff we are obliged to publish, it would be a welcome addition to our pages. I don’t mind the strength of the poem or the plot; you have made your meaning artistically obscure. But there is one word in it which would make it too strong meat for the readers of this magazine. I refer to the word ‘naked.’ It is quite true that the adjective ‘naked’ is used in conjunction with the noun ‘skies;’ but the word itself is highly objectionable. I have been trying to find a way out of the difficulty. I substituted the word ‘nude,’ but that spoils the meter, you see. Then I sought the dictionary.” He opened a dictionary that stood on a revolving stand beside him, and read aloud: “‘Naked—uncovered; unclothed; nude; bare; open; defenseless; plain; mere.’ None of these will answer the purpose, you see. They are either too short or too long; and ‘open’ does not convey the idea. I am really afraid that nothing can be done. Suppose you try something else and be more careful with your vocabulary. I trust you catch my idea, because I am really quite interested in your work. It is like the fresh breeze of spring when it is not”—here he laughed—“the torrid breath of the simoon. I have read some of your other verse, you see.” “I think I understand you,” said Hermia, leaning forward and gazing reflectively at him. “Manner is everything. Matter is a creature whose limbs may be of wood, whose joints may be sapless; so long as he is covered by a first-class tailor he is a being to strut proudly down to posterity. Or, for the sake of variety, which has its value, the creature may change his sex and become a pink-cheeked, flax-haired, blue-eyed doll. Hang upon her garments cut by an unconventional hand, looped eccentrically and draped artistically, and the poor little doll knows not herself from her clothes. Have I gazed understandingly upon the works of the literary clock?” The editor threw back his head and laughed aloud. “You are very clever,” he exclaimed, “but I am afraid your estimate of us is as correct as it is flattering. We are a set of cowards, but we should be bankrupt if we were not.” Hermia took the manuscript he had extracted from a drawer, and rose. “At all events you were charitable to read my verses,” she said, “and more than good to attempt their re-form.” The editor stood up also. “Oh, do not mention it,” he said, “and write me something else—something equally impassioned but quite irreproachable. Aside from the defect I mentioned, there were one or two verses which I should have been obliged to omit.” Hermia shrugged her shoulders. She might repeatedly work the lovers up to the verge of disaster, then, just before the fatal moment, wrench them apart and substitute asterisks for curses. The school-girls would palpitate, the old maids thrill, the married women smile, and the men grin. No harm would be done, maidens and maids would lay it down with a long-drawn sigh—of relief?—or regret? Hermia kept these reflections to herself and departed, thinking her editor a charming man. When she reached the sidewalk she stood irresolute for a moment, then walked rapidly for many blocks. The Mecca of her pilgrimage was another publishing-house. She stepped briskly upstairs and asked for the editor with a confidence born of excitement and encouragement. After a short delay she was shown into his office, and began the attack without preliminary. “I have brought you some verses,” she said, “which have been declined by two of your esteemed contemporaries on the ground of unconventionality—of being too highly seasoned for the gentle palates to which they cater. I bring them to you because I believe you have more courage than the majority of your tribe. You wrote two books in which you broke out wildly once or twice. Now I want you to read this while I am here. It will take but a few moments.” The editor, who had a highly non-committal air, smiled slightly, and held out his hand for the verses. He read them through, then looked up. “I rather like them,” he said. “They have a certain virility, although I do not mistake the strength of passion for creative force. But they are pretty tropical, and the versification is crude. I—am afraid—they—will hardly—do.” He looked out of the window, then smiled outright. It rather pleased him to dare that before which his brethren faltered. He made a number of marks on the manuscript. “That rectifies the crudeness a little,” he said, “and the poem certainly has intellectuality and merit. You can leave it. I will let you know in a day or two. Your address is on the copy, I suppose. I think you may count upon the availability of your verses.” Hermia accepted her dismissal and went home much elated. The verses were printed in the next issue of the magazine, and there was a mild storm on the literary lake. The course of the magazine, in sending up a stream of red-hot lava in place of the usual shower-bath of lemonade and claret-cup, was severely criticised, but there were those who said that this deliberately audacious editor enjoyed the little cyclone he had provoked. This was the most exciting episode Hermia could recall since Bessie’s marriage. * * * * * CHAPTER V. THE SWEETS OF SOLITUDE. A few weeks later Frank made an announcement which gave Hermia a genuine thrill of delight. A fellow bank-clerk was obliged to spend some months in California, and had offered Mordaunt his house in Jersey for the summer. Hermia would not consent to go with them, in spite of their entreaties. As far back as she could remember, way down through the long perspective of her childhood, she had never been quite alone except at night, nor could she remember the time when she had not longed for solitude. And now! To be alone for four months! No more evenings of domestic bliss, no more piles of stockings to darn, no more dinners to concoct, no more discussions upon economy, no more daily tasks carefully planned by Bessie’s methodical mind, no more lessons to teach, no more _anything_ which had been her daily portion for the last thirteen years. Bridget would go with the family. She would do her own cooking, and not eat at all if she did not wish. Her clothes could fall into rags, and her hands look through every finger of her gloves. She would read and dream and forget that the material world existed. It was a beautiful spring morning when Hermia found herself alone. She had gone with the family to Jersey, and had remained until they were settled. Now the world was her own. When she returned to the flat, she threw her things on the floor, pushed the parlor furniture awry, turned the framed photographs to the wall, and hid the worsted tidies under the sofa. For two months she was well content. She reveled in her loneliness, in the voiceless rooms, the deserted table, the aimless hours, the forgotten past, the will-painted present. She regarded the post-man as her natural enemy, and gave him orders not to ring her bell. Once a week she took her letters from the box and devoted a half-hour to correspondence. She had a hammock swung in one of the rooms, and dreamed half the night through that she was in the hanging gardens of Semiramis. The darkness alone was between her and the heavens thick with starry gods; and below was the heavy perfume of oranges and lotus flowers. There was music—soft—crashing—wooing her to a scene of bewildering light and mad carousal. There was rapture of power and ecstasy of love. She had but to fling aside the curtains—to fly down the corridor— It is not to be supposed that Hermia’s imagination was faithful to the Orient. Her nature had great sensuous breadth and wells of passion which penetrated far down into the deep, hard substratum of New England rock; but her dreams were apt to be inspired by what she had read last. She loved the barbarous, sensuous, Oriental past, but she equally loved the lore which told of the rugged strength and brutal sincerity of mediæval days, when man turned his thoughts to love and war and naught besides; when the strongest won the woman he wanted by murder and force, and the woman loved him the better for doing it. Hermia would have gloried in the breathless uncertainty of those days, when death and love went hand-in-hand, and every kiss was bought with the swing of a battle-axe. She would have liked to be locked in her tower by her feudal father, and to have thrown down a rope-ladder to her lover at night. Other periods of history at times demanded her, and she had a great many famous lovers: Bolingbroke and Mirabeau, Napoleon and Aaron Burr, Skobeleff and Cavour, a motley throng who bore a strong racial resemblance to one another when roasting in the furnace of her super-heated imagination. Again, there were times when love played but a small part in her visions. She was one of the queens of that world to which she had been born, a world whose mountains were of cold brown stone, and in whose few and narrow currents drifted stately maidens in stiff, white collars and tailor-made gowns. She should be one of that select band. It was her birthright; and each instinct of power and fastidiousness, caste and exclusiveness, flourished as greenly within her as if those currents had swept their roots during every year of her life’s twenty-four. When ambition sank down, gasping for breath, love would come forward eager and warm, a halo enveloped the brown-stone front, and through the plate-glass and silken curtains shone the sun of paradise. For a few weeks the charm of solitude retained its edge. Then, gradually, the restlessness of Hermia’s nature awoke after its sleep and clamored for recognition. She grew to hate the monotony of her own society as she had that of her little circle. She came to dread the silence of the house; it seemed to close down upon her, oppressing, stifling, until she would put her hand to her throat and gasp for breath. Sometimes she would scream at every noise; her nerves became so unstrung that sleep was a visitor who rarely remembered her. Once, thinking she needed change of scene, she went to Jersey. She returned the next morning. The interruption of the habit of years, the absolute change of the past few months made it impossible to take up again the strings of her old life. They had snapped forever, and the tension had been too tight to permit a knot. She could go down to the river, but not back to the existence of the past thirteen years. For a week after her return from Jersey she felt as if she were going mad. Life seemed to have stopped; the future was a blank sheet. Try to write on it as she would, the characters took neither form nor color. To go and live alone would mean no more than the change from her sister’s flat to a bare-walled room; to remain in her present conditions was unthinkable. She had neither the money nor the beauty to accumulate interests in life. Books ceased to interest her, imagination failed her. She tried to write, but passion was dead, and the blood throbbed in her head and drowned words and ideas. She had come to the edge of life, and at her feet swept the river—in its depths were peace and oblivion—eternal rest—a long, cool night—the things which crawl in the deep would suck the blood from her head—a claw with muscles of steel would wrench the brain from her skull and carry it far, far, where she could feel it throb and jump and ache no more— And then, one day, John Suydam died and left her a million dollars. * * * * * CHAPTER VI. SUYDAM’S LEGACY AND HERMIA’S WILL. Hermia attended her uncle’s funeral because Frank came over and insisted upon it; and she and her brother-in-law were the only mourners. But few people were in the church, a circumstance which Hermia remembered later with gratitude. The Suydams had lived on Second Avenue since Second Avenue had boasted a brick or brownstone front, but no one cared to assume a respect he did not feel. Among the tablets which graced the interior of St. Mark’s was one erected to the dead man’s father, who had left many shekels to the diocese; but John Suydam was lowered into the family vault with nothing to perpetuate his memory but his name and the dates of his birth and death engraved on the silver plate of his coffin. Hermia took no interest in her uncle’s death; she was even past the regret that she would be the poorer by twenty-five dollars a year. When she received the letter from Suydam’s lawyer, informing her that she was heiress to a million dollars, her hands shook for an hour. At first she was too excited to think connectedly. She went out and took a long walk, and physical fatigue conquered her nerves. She returned home and sat down on the edge of her bed and thought it all out. The world was under her feet at last. With such a fortune she could materialize every dream of her life. She would claim her place in society here, then go abroad, and in the old world forget the Nineteenth Century. She would have a house, each of whose rooms should be the embodiment of one of that strange medley of castles she had built in the land of her dreams. And men would love her—she
than the imaginative yarns which are always likely to be current about any bright personality, any "shining mark," like Stevenson and his accomplished wife. Now that he is dead, and Mrs. Stevenson has gone to his native Britain, it is well to deny authoritatively the absurd story which has often been revived during the past twenty years that Mrs. Stevenson's first husband, Mr. Osbourne, gave her away in marriage on the day of her wedding to Robert Louis Stevenson, and that Stevenson afterwards fraternized with his predecessor. As a matter of fact, Stevenson never in his life even saw the father of Lloyd Osbourne, who was about fourteen years of age at the time of his mother's marriage to the famous Scot. The father of Stevenson, an old-time Presbyterian gentlemen, made Lloyd Osbourne his heir, thus wholly welcoming his beloved daughter-in-law in the family, where she and her children have found happiness and where they gave so much. It is advisedly said that the elder Stevenson made Lloyd Osbourne his heir, his property to be that of his son's step-child after the death of his son and that son's wife. It is well known that Stevenson's mother was with his family in Samoa, and this dignified and conservative lady also followed the custom of the country which the family followed, in homely phrase, "going bare-footed" at home. Pictures of Stevenson in his Samoa home, enjoying the freedom of this native fashion, have been common enough. This Samoan custom seemed simple and natural to any one who saw the Stevensons in Samoa going without shoes and stockings, quite as summer girls on the Massachusetts shore have gone about without gloves or hats during recent years, an unconventionality which would once have shocked thousands. The matter would not be worth mentioning, but a curious myth about Mrs. Stevenson has sprung from it. A paragraph has been floating through contemporaries in several cities of late, to the effect that Mrs. Stevenson went out to dine in London, when first introduced there by her husband, without shoes and stockings! This little yarn really denies itself on the face of it. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Stevenson's conformity to social customs has never been found insufficient wherever she has been. She is a woman of original talents and great adaptability of talent who, for many years, was the nurse, the "guide, philosopher and friend," as well as the beloved wife of the child of genius whose name she bears. She was studying art in Paris, where she had gone with her three children, when she first met Robert Louis Stevenson, who was among the artists and literary folk at Barbizon. She returned to America with her daughter and her son--one son had died while she was in France--and readily got a divorce from Mr. Osbourne. No word concerning the father of her children has ever been uttered for publication by Mrs. Stevenson, or ever will be. He married a second time and, after a while, left his wife and disappeared. He has since been seen in South Africa. It is here repeated that Robert Louis Stevenson never saw him. Mrs. Stevenson wished to delay her second marriage for a year, but Stevenson had travelled over land and sea to California, and was ill and homesick. So, by the advice of a close friend, the marriage was not long postponed. This friend was Mrs. Virgil Williams, wife of the well-known teacher of painting in San Francisco, the founder of that pioneer art school of the West, which, since Mr. Williams's death, was munificently endowed by Mr. Searles as the Hopkins Institute. Mrs. Williams went with the pair to the house of Dr. Scott, a Presbyterian minister of San Francisco, who married Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson. Nobody else was present at the private wedding, except Mrs. Scott, the wife of the minister. This divine made Stevenson a present of a religious book of his own writing to read on the journey to Scotland, and the whimsical fear of Stevenson that he might not read it all while crossing the continent and the Atlantic was characteristic. But if he felt that this was not sufficiently light reading for a steamer journey he appreciated the gift, and in return sent Dr. Scott a book on a like topic written by his father in Scotland. "People are very much like folks"; the fairy tales which are told about the famous are very likely to need large grains of salt in the taking. The simple truth about the Stevensons was that theirs was a peculiarly fortunate and happy marriage, and that if they lived in Bohemia it was "on the airy uplands" of that land, where freedom of personal action never meant wilful foolish eccentricity or lack of conformity to the canons of true courtesy and kindness. THE DAVOS PLATZ BOOKS Mr. Joseph Pennell has contributed to _The Studio_ an account of an unpublished chapter, which is delightful reading and reveals Stevenson to the world as an illustrator and wood engraver. With the people of Le Monastier, the lace-makers, Stevenson became a popular figure and was known for miles in the country. In the town every urchin seemed to know his name, "although no living creature could pronounce it." One group of lace-makers brought out a chair whenever he went by, and insisted on having a good gossip. They would have it that the English talked French, or patois, and "of all patois they declared that mine was the most preposterous and the most jocose in sound. At each new word there was a new explosion of laughter, and some of the younger ones were glad to rise from their chairs and stamp about the streets in ecstasy." In a notice of the article, a writer in _The London Chronicle_ says: [Illustration: NOT I, And Other POEMS, _BY_ Robert Louis Stevenson, Author of _The Blue Scalper, Travels with a Donkey, etc._ PRICE 8d. BLACK CANYON _or_ Wild Adventures in the FAR WEST A Tale of Instruction and Amusement for the Young. _BY SAMUEL OSBOURNE_ ILLUSTRATED. _Printed by the Author._ Davos-Platz.] "There was a dear old lady of Monastier with whom he struck up an attachment. She passed judgment on his sketches and his heresy with a wry mouth and a twinkle of the eye that were eminently Scottish. 'She was never weary of sitting to me for her portrait, in her best cap and brigand hat, and with all her wrinkles tidily composed, and though she never failed to repudiate the result, she would always insist upon another trial. * * * "No, no," she would say, "that is not it. I am old, to be sure, but I am better looking than that. We must try again." "But the most characteristic work of Stevenson as illustrator is to be found in the quaint little woodcuts which adorned the volumes turned out by the press of Osbourne & Co. at Davos. With some very primitive type and a boundless capacity for frivoling, this 'company,' consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson and young Lloyd Osbourne, managed to while away the hours of the Swiss Winter in delightful fashion. As Mr. Pennell states in _The Studio_ these Davos editions are exceedingly hard to secure. The British Museum itself has only two copies, and there is no hint of their existence in any of the published works. One of these works was entitled 'Moral Emblems; a Collection of Cuts and Verses.' "There was also a second collection of 'Moral Emblems, an edition de luxe, in tall paper, extra fine, price tenpence, and a popular edition for the million, small paper, cuts slightly worn, a great bargain, eightpence.' Another of these volumes was entitled 'The Graver and the Pen,' of which the author asserted on the poster that it was 'a most strikingly illustrated little work, and the poetry so pleasing that when it is taken up to be read is finished before it is set down.' There were five full-page illustrations, eleven pages of poetry finely printed on superb paper, and the whole work offered a splendid chance for an energetic publisher. One of the moral emblems runs as follows: "Industrious pirate! See him sweep The lonely bosom of the deep, And daily the horizon scan From Hatteras or Matapan. Be sure, before that pirate's old, He will have made a pot of gold, And will retire from all his labors And be respected by his neighbors. You also scan your life's horizon For all that you can clap your eyes on. "Sometimes an unintentional effect was introduced into the woodcuts, as in the case of 'The Foolhardy Geographer.' We cannot tell the story, but the effect is thus described in a postscript: "A blemish in the cut appears, Alas! it cost both blood and tears. The glancing graver swerved aside, Fast flowed the artist's vital tide! And now the apologetic bard Demands indulgence for his pard." STEVENSON'S LATER LETTERS _London Bookman, Dec. 1899._ Out of these noble volumes of Stevenson letters two things come to me of new, of which the first is the more important. Before and above all else these books (with their appendage, the Vailima Correspondence) are the record of as noble a friendship as I know of in letters. And perhaps, as following from this, we have here a Stevenson without shadows. Not even a full statue, but rather a medallion in low relief--as it were the St. Gaudens bust done into printer's ink. It is difficult to say precisely what one feels, with Mr. Colvin (and long may he be spared) still in the midst of us. And yet I cannot help putting it on record that what impresses me most in these volumes, wherein are so many things lovely and of good report, is the way in which, in order that one friend may shine like a city set on a hill, the other friend consistently retires himself into deepest shade. Yet all the same Mr. Colvin is ever on the spot. You can trace him on every page--emergent only when an explanation must be made, never saying a word too much, obviously in possession of all the facts, but desirous of no reward or fame or glory to himself if only Tusitala continue to shine the first among his peers. Truly there is a love not perhaps _sur_passing the love of women, but certainly _passing_ it, in that it is different in kind and degree. Obviously, however, Mr. Colvin often wounded with the faithful wounds of a friend, and sometimes in return he was blessed, and sometimes he was banned. But always the next letter made it all right. To those outside of his family and familiars Stevenson was always a charming and sometimes a regular correspondent. To myself, with no claim upon him save that of a certain instinctive mutual liking, he wrote with the utmost punctuality every two months from 1888 to the week of his death. It is the irony of fate that about thirty of these letters lie buried somewhere beneath, above, or behind an impenetrable barrier of 25,000 books. In a certain great "flitting" conducted by village workmen these manuscripts disappeared, and have so far eluded all research. But at the next upturning of the Universe, I doubt not they will come to light and be available for Mr. Colvin's twentieth edition. It was a great grief to me that I had no more to contribute besides those few but precious documents which appear in their places in the second volume of "Letters to Family and Friends." Albeit, in spite of every such blank, here is such richness as has not been in any man's correspondence since Horace Walpole's--yet never, like his, acidly-based, never razor-edged, never, for all Stevenson's Edinburgh extraction, either west-endy or east-windy. Here in brief are two books, solid, sane, packed with wit and kindliness and filled full of the very height of living. Not all of Stevenson is here--it seems to me, not even the greater part of Stevenson. Considered from one point of view, there is more of the depths of the real Stevenson in a single chapter of Miss Eve Simpson's "Edinburgh Days," especially in the chapter entitled "Life at Twenty-five," than in any of these 750 fair pages. But with such a friend as Mr. Colvin this was inevitable. He has carried out that finest of the maxims of amity, "Censure your friend in private, praise him in public!" And, indeed, if ever man deserved to be praised it was Stevenson. So generous was he, so ready to be pleased with other men's matters, so hard to satisfy with his own, a child among children, a man among men, a king among princes. Yet, all the same, anything of the nature of a play stirred him to the shoe soles, down to that last tragic bowl of salad and bottle of old Burgundy on the night before he died. He was a fairy prince and a peasant boy in one, Aladdin with an old lamp under his arm always ready to be rubbed, while outside his window Jack's beanstalk went clambering heavenward a foot every five minutes. All the same, it gives one a heartache--even those of us who knew him least--to think that no more of these wide sheets close written and many times folded will ever come to us through the post. And what the want must be to those who knew him longer and better, to Mr. Colvin, Mr. Gosse, Mr. Henley, only they know. For myself, I am grateful for every word set down here. It is all sweet, and true, and gracious. The heaven seems kinder to the earth while we read, and in the new portrait Tusitala's large dark eyes gleam at us from beneath the penthouse of his brows with a gipsy-like and transitory suggestion. "The Sprite" some one called him. And it was a true word. For here he had no continuing city. Doubtless, though, he lightens some Farther Lands with his bright wit, and such ministering spirits as he may cross on his journeying are finding him good company. _Talofa, Tusitala_; do not go very far away! We too would follow you down the "Road of Loving Hearts." S. R. CROCKETT. [Illustration: THE PENTLAND RISING A PAGE OF HISTORY 1666 'A cloud of witnesses ly here, Who for Christ's interest did appear.' _Inscription on Battle-field at Rullion Green._ EDINBURGH ANDREW ELLIOT, 17 PRINCES STREET 1866] A STEVENSON SHRINE _By Emily Soldene_ In 1896 I strolled down Market Street, San Francisco, looking into the curio- and other shops under the Palace Hotel, when my attention was attracted by a crowd of people round one particular shop-window. Now, a crowd in San Francisco (except on political occasions) is an uncommon sight. Naturally, with the curiosity of my sex and the perseverance of the Anglo-Saxon, I took my place in the surging mass and patiently waited till the course of events, and the shoulders of my surroundings, brought me up close to the point of vantage. What came they out for to see? It was a bookseller's window. In the window was a shrine. "The Works and Portraits of Robert Louis Stevenson," proclaimed a placard all illuminated and embossed with red and purple and green and gold. In the centre of the display was an odd-looking document. This, then, was the loadstone--a letter of Stevenson's, in Stevenson's own handwriting. Many people stood and read, then turned away, sad and sorrowful-looking. "Poor fellow!" said one woman. "But he's all right now. I guess he's got more than he asked for." I stood, too, and read. Before I had finished, my eyes, unknowingly, were full of tears. This is the document. When you have read, you will not wonder at the tears. "I think now, this 5th or 6th of April, 1873, that I can see my future life. I think it will run stiller and stiller year by year, a very quiet, desultorily studious existence. If God only gives me tolerable health, I think now I shall be very happy: work and science calm the mind, and stop gnawing in the brain; and as I am glad to say that I do now recognise that I shall never be a great man, I may set myself peacefully on a smaller journey, not without hope of coming to the inn before nightfall. _O dass mein leben Nach diesem ziel ein ewig wandeln sey!_" I walked on a block or so, and, after a few minutes, when I thought my voice was steady and under control, turned back, went into the book-store, and asked the young man in attendance, "Could I be allowed to take a copy of the letter in the window?" He told me it was not, as I thought, an original document, but the printed reproduction of a memorandum found among the dead Stevenson's papers. "Then," said I, "can I not have one--can I not buy one?" And the young man shook his head. "No; they are not for sale." "Oh, I am sorry!" said I. "I would have given anything for one." "Well," said he, in a grave voice, and with a grave smile, "they are not, indeed, for sale; but have been printed for a particular purpose, and one will be given to all lovers of Stevenson." He spoke in such a low, reverent, sympathetic tone that I _knew his_ eyes must be full, and so I would not look. Next day I went to see _Mr. Doxey_ himself, who is a Stevenson enthusiast, and has one window (the window of the crowd) devoted entirely to Stevenson. All his works, all his editions--including the Edinburgh Edition--are there; and he, with the greatest kindness, showed me the treasures he had collected. In the first place, the number of portraits was astonishing. Years and conditions and circumstances, all various and changing; but the face--the face always the same. The eyes, wonderful in their keenness, their interrogative, questioning, eager gaze; the looking out, always looking out, always asking, looking ahead, far away into some distant land not given to _les autres_ to perceive. That wonderful looking out was the first thing that impressed me when I met Mr. Stevenson in Sydney in '93. Unfortunately for us, he only stayed there a short time, would not visit, was very difficult of access, not at all well, and when he went seemed to disappear, not go. Mr. Doxey had pictures of him in every possible phase--in turn-down collar, in no collar at all; his hair long, short, and middling; in oils, in water-colour, in photos, in a smoking-cap and Imperial; with a moustache, without a moustache; young, youthful, dashing, Byronic; not so youthful, middle-aged; looking in _this_ like a modern Manfred; in _that_ like an epitome of the fashions, wearing a debonair demeanour and a _degage_ tie; as a boy, as a barrister; on horseback, in a boat. There was a portrait taken by Mrs. Stevenson in 1885, and one lent by Virgil Williams; another, a water-colour, lent by Miss O'Hara; and a wonderful study of his wonderful hands. Then he was photographed in his home at Samoa, surrounded by his friends and his faithful, devoted band of young men, his Samoan followers; in the royal boat-house at Honolulu, seated side by side with his Majesty King Kalakaua; on board the _Casco_. Here, evidently anxious for a really good picture, he has taken off his hat, standing in the sun bareheaded. At a native banquet, surrounded by all the delicacies of the season, bowls of _kava_, _poi_, _palo-sami_, and much good company. Then the later ones at Vailima; in the clearing close to his house, in the verandah. Later still, writing in his bed. Coming to the "inn" he talks about in 1873--coming so close, close, unexpectedly, but not unprepared--Robert Louis Stevenson has passed the veil. Not dead, but gone before, he lives in the hearts of all people. But not so palpably, so outwardly, so proudly, as in the hearts of these people of the Sunny Land, who, standing on the extreme verge of the Western world, shading their eyes from the shining glory, watch the sunshine go out through the Golden Gate, out on its way across the pearly Pacific to the lonely Mountain of Samoa where lies the body of the man "Tusitala," whose songs and lessons and stories fill the earth, and the souls of the people thereof. On the fly-leaf of the copy of "The Silverado Squatters," sent to "Virgil Williams and Dora Norton Williams," to whom it was dedicated, is the following poem in the handwriting of the author, written at Hyeres, where, as he says in his diary, he spent the happiest days of his life-- Here, from the forelands of the tideless sea, Behold and take my offering unadorned. In the Pacific air it sprang; it grew Among the silence of the Alpine air; In Scottish heather blossomed; and at last, By that unshapen sapphire, in whose face Spain, Italy, France, Algiers, and Tunis view Their introverted mountains, came to fruit. Back now, my booklet, on the diving ship, And posting on the rails to home, return Home, and the friends whose honouring name you bear. --_The Sketch, Feb. 26, 1896_ STEVENSON AND HAZLITT Of the many books which Robert Louis Stevenson planned and discussed with his friends in his correspondence there is none, perhaps, which would have been more valued than the biography of William Hazlitt. Whenever Stevenson refers to Hazlitt, whether in his essay on "Walking Tours" or in his letters, he makes one wish he would say more. This is what he writes to Mr. Hammerton: _"I am in treaty with Bentley for a Life of Hazlitt; I hope it will not fall through as I love the subject, and appear to have found a publisher who loves it also. That, I think, makes things more pleasant. You know I am a fervent Hazlittite; I mean regarding him as the English writer who has had the scantiest justice. Besides which, I am anxious to write biography; really, if I understand myself in quest of profit, I think it must be good to live with another man from birth to death. You have tried it, and know."_ If the qualification of a biographer is to understand his subject, Stevenson may be said to have been well qualified to write on Hazlitt. Mr. Leslie Stephen has given us a fine critical estimate of Hazlitt the writer, and the late Mr. Ireland's prefatory memoir to his admirable selection from the Essays, with its enforced limitations, is an excellent piece of biographical condensation, but the life of the essayist has yet to be written. The subject has been tried by many others, but no one has quite captured the spirit of Hazlitt. Had the details of Hazlitt's life, with his passionate hates and loves, been told by himself in the manner of his beloved Rousseau, he might have produced a book which for interest would have rivalled the _Confessions_, but failing such a work one must deplore that Stevenson was not encouraged to write on the subject. _I. R., in London Academy._ ON BERANGER _From the article by Robert Louis Stevenson in the Encyclopædia Britannica._ ....He worked deliberately, never wrote more than fifteen songs a year and often less, and was so fastidious that he has not preserved a quarter of what he finished. "I am a good little bit of a poet," he says himself, "clever in the craft, and a conscientious worker, to whom old airs and a modest choice of subjects (_le coin ou je me suis confine_), have brought some success." Nevertheless, he makes a figure of importance in literary history. When he first began to cultivate the _chanson_, this minor form lay under some contempt, and was restricted to slight subjects and a humorous guise of treatment. Gradually he filled these little chiseled toys of verbal perfection with ever more and more sentiment. From a date comparatively early he had determined to sing for the people. It was for this reason that he fled, as far as possible, the houses of his influential friends, and came back gladly to the garret and the street corner. Thus it was, also, that he came to acknowledge obligations to Emile Debraux, who had often stood between him and the masses as interpreter, and given him the key-note of the popular humour. Now, he had observed in the songs of sailors, and all who labour, a prevailing tone of sadness; and so, as he grew more masterful in this sort of expression, he sought more and more after what is deep, serious, and constant in the thoughts of common men. The evolution was slow; and we can see in his own works examples of every stage, from that of witty indifference in fifty pieces of the first collection, to that of grave and even tragic feeling in _Les Souvenirs du Peuple_ or _Le Vieux Vagabond_. And this innovation involved another, which was as a sort of prelude to the great romantic movement. For the _chanson_, as he says himself, opened up to him a path in which his genius could develop itself at ease; he escaped, by this literary postern, from strict academical requirements, and had at his disposal the whole dictionary, four-fifths of which, according to La Harpe, were forbidden to the use of more regular and pretentious poetry. If he still kept some of the old vocabulary, some of the old imagery, he was yet accustoming people to hear moving subjects treated in a manner more free and simple than heretofore; so that his was a sort of conservative reform, preceding the violent revolution of Victor Hugo and his army of uncompromising romantics. He seems himself to have had glimmerings of some such idea; but he withheld his full approval from the new movement on two grounds:--first, because the romantic school misused somewhat brutally the delicate organism of the French language; and second, as he wrote to Sainte-Beuve in 1832, because they adopted the motto of "Art for art," and set no object of public usefulness before them as they wrote. For himself (and this is the third point of importance) he had a strong sense of political responsibility. Public interest took a far higher place in his estimation than any private passion or favour. He had little toleration for those erotic poets who sing their own loves and not the common sorrows of mankind, "who forget," to quote his own words, "forget beside their mistress those who labour before the Lord."... STEVENSON OF THE LETTERS. Long, hatchet face, black hair, and haunting gaze, That follows, as you move about the room, Ah, this is he who trod the darkening ways, And plucked the flowers upon the edge of doom. The bright, sweet-scented flowers that star the road To death's dim dwelling, others heed them not, With sad eyes fixed upon that drear abode, Weeping, and wailing their unhappy lot. But he went laughing down the shadowed way, The boy's heart leaping still within his breast, Weaving his garlands when his mood was gay, Mocking his sorrows with a solemn jest. The high Gods gave him wine to drink; a cup Of strong desire, of knowledge, and of pain, He set it to his lips and drank it up, Then smiling, turned unto his flowers again. These are the flowers of that immortal strain, Which, when the hand that plucked them drops and dies, Still keep their radiant beauty free from stain, And breathe their fragrance through the centuries. B. PAUL NEWMAN. APROPOS VAILIMA LETTERS. The account of an interview with Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson, published in a San Francisco paper, is somewhat distressing reading. It raises over again the old question of the prudence of publishing a dead man's letters, when his widow is still alive, without her sanction. Mrs. Stevenson says that her late husband's friends--if such she still holds them to be--have hastened to make money out of the scraps and scrawls he sent them. The charge reads as an ugly one. But a moment's reflection supplies its modifications. Has Mr. Henley rushed into the market-place with his dead friend's letters? Has Mr. Charles Baxter? That was the old trio renowned in song and famous in fable. Of the newer friends--friends such as those he made in Bournemouth, Lady Shelley and the Misses Ashworth Taylor, the most attached a man ever had--not one has brought out of his or her treasury the delightful letters of "R. L. S." We have the Vailima Letters, it is true, but surely these must be published by the consent of Mrs. Stevenson and at her profit? We had also that letter which Mr. Gosse sent to the _Times_. And, as for that, it was, obviously given and not "sold"? In this particular letter, which was written in acknowledgment of a dedication of Mr. Gosse's poems to him, Stevenson congratulated his correspondent on the prospect of an old age mitigated by the society of his descendants. To heighten the picture, the man who had learned his craft so well, and could hardly elude it in his least-considered letters, introduced his own figure as a sort of foil--he was childless. That word, uttered with regret, has, perhaps, a pang which the heart of a widow might imagine she should be spared. Again, in one of the Vailima Letters, Stevenson refers to his having been happy only once in his life, and that, too, on the chance of its misinterpretation, may be ashes in Mrs. Stevenson's mouth. Yet who does not know "R. L. S." as a man of moods? He is that, and nothing else, in some of his letters. And no chance phrase of his will ever be read to the discredit of Mrs. Stevenson--she may take the English reader's oath on that. In one of his Vailima Letters Stevenson speaks of the "incredible" pains he has given to the first chapter of "Weir of Hermiston." Yet, after that even he remodelled it. It was worth the trouble, and the other seven and a bit are worthy of it. The very title was a serious trouble to him. "Braxfield" he would have liked it to be, but the judge of that name was not treated with enough historical care to warrant the adoption of it. Another name, "The Hanging Judge," he abandoned; also "The Lord Justice Clerk," also "The Two Kirsties of Cauldstaneship," and "The Four Black Brothers." No doubt in choosing "Weir of Hermiston"--with some of the sound-romance of Dobell's "Keiths of Revelston" about it--he chose finally for the best.--_The Sketch._ [Illustration: NOTICE OF A NEW FORM OF INTERMITTENT LIGHT FOR LIGHTHOUSES. BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON _From the Transactions of the Royal Scottish Society of Arts, Vol. VIII._, 1870-1871 EDINBURGH PRINTED BY NEILL AND COMPANY 1871] A VISIT TO STEVENSON'S PACIFIC ISLE It is a curious fact that Stevenson, whom we all regarded at home as being the personification of Samoa--indeed, it would be no exaggeration to say that the average Englishman's idea of Samoa was "some island or other in the Pacific where Stevenson lives,"--has left very little behind him in the way of tradition or story in the island he loved so well. He lived in the midst of a society which, outside his immediate family surroundings, must have been eminently uncongenial to a man of his refined nature, yet he damaged his fame here, at least, by meddling in the petty squabbles which agitate the beach at Apia, and his "Footnote to History" has made him a host of enemies, notably among the German colony, who, by the mouth of one of their many prophets, condemned him to me as a writer of "stupid stinks!" And therefore he may have made a mistake in imagining himself a factor in the insoluble equation of Samoan affairs. It is to the natives that he was more attached than to the vague ideals which form their so-called political future. To them he was a great chief, "Tusitala Talmita" by name, and many a native I have spoken to mentioned him with real affection as a good friend and a man with a golden heart. Perhaps this is the praise he himself would have chosen rather than that of the white colony. It is not my purpose, however, to dilate on his life in Samoa, nor indeed would it be possible to gather, from the mass of conflicting evidence, any rational account of his doings in his island home. It is of a pilgrimage which I made to visit his library that I would give some short account. The room was walled from floor to ceiling with books, and I began to inspect them. To the left of the door were some "yellow backs," but few, nor did I see in his library much trash of any description. Next came books of travel in almost every country in the world, the bulk of them, however, dealing with the Pacific. From Capt. Cook down, it would be hard to name a Pacific travel book that has not found itself on the shelves at Vailima. Next, I am bound to say, came my first disappointment. I had always thought that Stevenson must have been a good classical scholar, and had an idea formed, I know not how or whence, that a great style--and surely his may be justly called so--necessitated a close and intimate acquaintance with those classical authors who-- "Upon the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever." Yet I found classics, indeed, but, alas! in Mr. Bohn's edition, while on the shelf beneath lay the originals uncut. It came to me as a positive blow to find the pages of the "Odyssey" uncared for and unread, save in some translation. Of Horace he had many and good editions, and they seemed read and used; but of the Greek tragedians I found only "Sophocles" in Prof. Campbell's translation, and no edition of his plays save a small "OEdipus the King." This was a great shock to me, for even supposing that Stevenson was only "a maker of phrases" (as many people will tell you, above all here, "for a prophet is not without honor," etc.), still phrases must have some basis in education, and a man who is evidently careless of his masters of ancient language is not likely to prove a brilliant coiner of words. Turning with regret from this shelf, I came next upon a fine collection of French works, beginning with a complete edition of Balzac, which had evidently been read with care. Much French fiction was here--Daudet's "Tartarin," "Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine," "Les Rois en Exil," Guy
. It's spent on soap and dungarees. Machinists get soaked in fuel oil, Electricians in H2SO4, Gunner's mates with 600 W, And torpedo slush galore. When we come into the Navy Yard We are looked upon with disgrace; And they make out some new regulation To fit our particular case. Now all you battleship sailors, When you are feeling disgruntled and mean, Just pack your bag and hammock And go to a submarine. V THE RETURN OF THE CAPTAINS The breakfast hour was drawing to its end, and the very last straggler sat alone at the ward room table. Presently an officer of the mother ship, passing through, called to the lingering group of submarine officers. "The X4 is coming up the bay, and the X12 has been reported from signal station." The news was received with a little hum of friendly interest. "Wonder what Ned will have to say for himself this time." "Must have struck pretty good weather." "Bet you John has been looking for another chance at that Hun of his." The talk drifted away into other channels. A little time passed. Then suddenly a door opened, and one after the other entered the three officers of the first home coming submarine. They were clad in various ancient uniforms which might have been worn by an apprentice lad in a garage, old grey flannel shirts, and stout grease stained shoes; several days had passed since their faces had felt a razor, and all were a little pale from their cruise. But the liveliest of keen eyes burned in each resolute young face, eyes smiling and glad. A friendly hullaballoo broke forth. Chairs scraped, one fell with a crash. "Hello, boys!" "Hi, John!" "For the love of Pete, Joe, shave off those whiskers of yours; they make you look like Trotsky." "See any Germans?" "What's the news?" "What's doing?" "Hi, Manuelo" (this to a Philipino mess boy who stood looking on with impassive curiosity), "save three more breakfasts." "Anything go for you?" "Well, if here isn't our old Bump!" The crowd gathered round Captain John who had established contact (this is military term quite out of place in a work on the Navy) with the eagerly sought, horribly elusive German. "Go on, John, give us an earful. What time did you say it was?" "About 5 A.M.," answered the captain. He stood leaning against a door and the fine head, the pallor, the touch of fatigue, all made a very striking and appealing picture. "Say about eight minutes after five. I'd just come up to take a look-see, and saw him just about two miles away on the surface, and moving right along. So I went under to get into a good position, came up again and let him have one. Well, the bird saw it just as it was almost on him, swung her round, and dived like a ton of lead." The audience listened in silent sympathy. One could see the disappointment on the captain's face. "Where was he?" "About so and so." "That's the jinx that got after the convoy sure as you live." The speaker had had his own adventures with the Germans. A month or so he shoved his periscope and spotted a Fritz on the surface in full noonday. The watchful Fritz, however, had been lucky enough to see the enemy almost at once and had dived. The American followed suit. The eyeless submarine manoeuvred about some eighty feet under, the German evidently "making his get-a-way," the American hoping to be lucky enough to pick up Fritz's trail, and get a shot at him when the enemy rose again, to the top. And while the two blind ships manoeuvred there in the dark of the abyss, the keel of the fleeing German had actually, by a curious chance, scraped along the top of the American vessel and carried away the wireless aerials! All were silent for a few seconds, thinking over the affair. It was not difficult to read the thought in every mind, the thought of _getting at the enemy_. The idea of our Navy is "Get after 'em, Keep after 'em, Stay after 'em, Don't give 'em an instant of security or rest." And none have this fighting spirit deeper in their hearts than our gallant men of the submarine patrol. "That's all," said Captain John. "I'm going to have a wash up." He lifted a grease stained hand to his cheek, and rubbed his unshaven beard, and grinned. "Any letters?" "Whole bag of stuff. Smithie put it on your desk." Captain John wandered off. Presently, the door opened again, and three more veterans of the patrol cruised in, also in ancient uniforms. There were more cheers; more friendly cries. It was unanimously decided that the "Trotsky" of the first lot had better take a back seat, since the second in command of the newcomers was "a perfect ringer for Rasputin." "See anything?" "Nothing much. There's a bit of wreckage just off shore. Saw a British patrol boat early Tuesday morning. I was on the surface, lying between her and the sunrise; she was hidden by a low lying swirl of fog; she saw us first. When we saw her, I made signals, and over she came. Guess what the old bird wanted... _wanted to know if I'd seen a torpedo he'd fired at me_! An old scout with white whiskers, one of those retired captains, I suppose, who has gone back on the job. He admitted that he had received the Admiralty notes about us, but thought we acted suspicious.... Did you ever hear of such nerve!" When the war was young, I had a year of it on land. Now, I have seen the war at sea. To my mind, if there was one service of this war which more than any other required those qualities of endurance, skill and courage whose blend the fighting men so wisely call "_guts_," it surely was our submarine patrol. So here's to the L boats, their officers and crews, and to the _Bushnell_ and her brood of Bantry Bay! VI OUR SAILORS In the lingo of the Navy, the enlisted men are known as "gobs." This word is not to be understood as in any sense conveying a derogatory meaning. The men use it themselves;--"the _gobs_ on the 210." "What does a real _gob_ want with a wrist watch?" It is an unlovely syllable, but it has character. In the days before the war, our navy was, to use an officer's phrase, more of "a big training school" than anything else. There were, of course, a certain number of young men who intended to become sailors by profession, even as some entered the regular army with the intention of remaining in it, but the vast majority of sailors were "one enlistment men" who signed on for four years and then returned to civilian life. The personnel included boys just graduated from or weary of high school, young men from the western farms eager for a glimpse of the world, and city lads either uncertain as to just what trade or profession they should follow or thirsting for a man's cup of adventure before settling down to the prosaic task that gives the daily bread. To-day, the enlisted personnel of the Navy is a cross section of the Nation's youth. There are many college men, particularly among the engineers. There are young men who have abandoned professions to enter the Navy to do their bit. For instance, the yeoman who ran the little office on board Destroyer 66 was a young lawyer who had attained real distinction. On board the same destroyer was a lad who had been for a year or two a reporter on one of the New York papers, and a chubby earnest lad whose father is a distinguished leader of the Massachusetts bar. Of my four best friends, "Pop" had worked in some shop or other, "Giles" was a student from an agricultural college somewhere in western New York, "Idaho" was a high school boy fresh from a great ranch, and "Robie" was the son of a physician in a small southern city. The Napoleonic veterans of the new navy are the professional "gobs" of old; sailors with second enlistment stripes go down the deck the very _vieux de la veille_. The sailor suffers from the fact that many people have fixed in their minds an imaginary sailor whom they have created from light literature and the stage. Just as the soldier must always be a dashing fellow, so must the sailor be a rollicking soul, fond of the bottle and with a wife in every port. Is not the "comic sailor" a recognized literary figure? Yet whoever heard of the "comic soldier"? This silly phantom blinds us to the genuine charm of character with which the sea endows her adventurous children; we turn into a frolic a career that is really one of endurance, heroism, and downright hard work. Not that I am trying to make Jack a sobersides or a saint. He is full of fun and spirit. But the world ought to cease imagining him either as a mannerless "rough-houser" or a low comedian. Our sailors have no special partiality for the bottle; indeed, I feel quite certain that a majority of every crew "keep away from booze" entirely. As for having a wife in every port, the Chaplain says that a sailor is the most faithful husband in the world. As a lot, sailors are unusually good-hearted. This last Christmas the men of our American battleships now included in the Grand Fleet requested permission to invite aboard the orphan children of a great neighbouring city, and give them an "American good time." So the kiddies were brought aboard; Jack rigged up a Christmas tree, and distributed presents and sweets in a royal style. Said a witness of the scene to me, "I never saw children so happy." One of the passions which sway "the gobs" is to have a set of "tailor-made" liberty blues. By "liberty blues" you are to understand the sailor's best uniform, the picturesque outfit he wears ashore. Surely the uniform of our American sailor is quite the handsomest of all. On such a flimsy excuse, however, as that "the government stuff don't fit you round the neck" or "hasn't any _style_," Jack is forever rushing to some Louie Katzenstein in Norfolk, Va., or Sam Schwartz of Charlestown, Mass., to get a "real" suit made. Endless are the attempts to make these "a little bit _different_," attempts, alas, which invariably end in reprimand and disaster. The _dernier cri_ of sportiness is to have a right hand pocket lined with starboard green and a left hand pocket lined with port red. A second ambition is to own a heavy seal ring, "fourteen karat, Navy crest. Name and date of enlistment engraved free." Sailors pay anywhere from twenty to seventy dollars for these treasures. To-day, the style is to have a patriotic motto engraved within the band. I remember several inscribed "Democracy or Death." The desire of having a "real" watch comes next in hand, and if you ask a sailor the time he is very liable to haul out a watch worth anywhere from a hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars. Our sailors are the very finest fellows in the world to live with. I sailed with the Navy many thousand miles; I visited all the great bases, and _I did not see one single case of drunkenness or disorderly behaviour_. The work done by our sailors was a hard and gruelling labour, the seas which they patrolled were haunted by every danger, yet everywhere they were eager and keen, their energy unabated, their spirits unshaken. VII THE BASE The town which served as the base of the American destroyers has but one great street; it is called The Esplanade, and lies along the harbour edge and open to the sea. I saw it first in the wild darkness of a night in early March. Rain, the drenching, Irish rain, had been falling all the day, but toward evening the downpour had ceased, and a blustery south-east wind had thinned the clouds, and brought the harbour water to clashing and complaining in the dark. It was such a night as a man might peer at from a window, and be grateful for the roof which sheltered him, yet up and down the gloomy highway, past the darkened houses and street lamps shaded to mere lifeless lumps of light, there moved a large and orderly crowd. For the most part, this crowd consisted of American sailors from the destroyers in port, lean, wholesome-looking fellows these, with a certain active and eager manner very reassuring to find on this side of our cruelly tried and jaded world. Peering into a little lace shop decked with fragile knickknacks and crammed with bolts of table linen, I saw two great bronzed fellows in pea jackets and pancake hats buying something whose niceties of stitch and texture a little red-cheeked Irish lass explained with pedagogic seriousness; whilst at the other end of the counter a young officer with grey hair fished in his pockets for the purchase money of some yards of lace which the proprietress was slowly winding around a bit of blue cardboard. Back and forth, now swallowed up in the gloom of a dark stretch, now become visible in the light of a shop door, streamed the crowd of sailors, soldiers, officers, country folk and townspeople. I heard Devon drawling its oe's and oa's; America speaking with Yankee crispness, and Ireland mingling in the babel with a mild and genial brogue. By morning the wind had died down; the sun was shining merrily, and great mountain masses of rolling white cloud were sailing across the sky as soft and blue as that which lies above Fiesole. Going forth, I found the little town established on an edge of land between the water and the foot of a hill; a long hill whose sides were in places so precipitous that only masses of dark green shrubbery appeared between the line of dwellings along the top and the buildings of the Esplanade. The hill, however, has not had things all its way. Two streets, rising at an angle which would try the endurance of an Alpine ram actually go in a straight line from the water's edge to the high ground, taking with them, in their ascent, tier after tier of mean and grimy dwellings. All other streets, however, are less heroic, and climb the side of the hill in long, sloping lateral lines. A new Gothic cathedral, built just below the crest of the hill, but far overtopping it, dominates and crowns the town; perhaps crushes would be the better verb, for the monstrous bone-grey mass towers above the terraced roofs of the port with an ascendancy as much moral as physical. Yet for all its vastness and commanding situation, it is singularly lifeless, and only the trickery of a moonlight night can invest its mediocre, Albert-Memorial architecture with any trace of beauty. The day begins slowly there, partly because this south Irish climate is such stuff as dreams are made of, partly because good, old irreconcilables are suspicious of the daylight saving law as a British measure. There is little to be seen till near on ten o'clock. Then the day begins; a number of shrewd old fish wives, with faces wrinkled like wintered apples and hair still black as a raven's wing, set up their stalls in an open space by a line of deserted piers, and peasants from near by villages come to town driving little donkey carts laden with the wares; now one hears the real rural brogue, the shrewd give and take of jest and bargain, and a prodigious yapping and snarling from a prodigious multitude of curs. Never have I seen more collarless dogs. The streets are full of the hungry, furtive creatures; there is a fight every two or three minutes between some civic champion and one of the invading rural mongrels; many is the Homeric fray that has been settled by a good kick with a sea boot. Little by little the harbour, seeing that the land is at last awake, comes ashore to buy its fresh eggs, green vegetables, sweet milk and golden Tipperary butter. The Filipino and negro stewards from the American ships arrive with their baskets and cans; they are very popular with Queenstown folk who cherish the delusion that our trimly dressed, genially grinning negroes are the American Indians of boyhood's romance. From the cathedral's solitary spire, a chime jangles out the quarters, amusing all who pause to listen with its involuntary rendering of the first bar of "Strike up the band; here comes a sailor." And ever and anon, a breeze blows in from the harbour bringing with it a faint smell from the funnels of the oil-burning destroyers, a smell which suggests that a giant oil lamp somewhere in the distance has need of turning down. After the lull of noon, the men to whom liberty has been given begin to arrive in boatloads forty and fifty strong. The patrollers, distinguished from their fellows by leggins, belts, white hats, and police billie, descend first, form in line, and march off to their ungrateful task of keeping order where there is no disorder; then, scrambling up the water side stairs like youngsters out of school, follow the liberty men. If there is any newcomer to the fleet among them, it is an even chance that he will be rushed over the hill to the _Lusitania_ cemetery, a gruesome pilgrimage to which both British and American tars are horridly partial. Some are sure to stroll off to their club, some elect to wander about the Esplanade, others disappear in the highways and byways of the town. For Bill and Joe have made friends. There have been some fifty marriages at this base. I imagine a good deal of match-making goes on in those grimy streets, for the Irish marriage is, like the Continental one, no matter of silly sentiment, but a serious domestic transaction. All afternoon long, the sailors come and go. The supper hour takes them to their club; night divides them between the movies and the nightly promenade in the gloom. The glories of this base as a mercantile port, if there ever were any--and the Queenstown folk labour mightily to give you the impression that it was the only serious rival to London--are now over with the glories of Nineveh and Tyre. A few Cunard lithographs of leviathans now for the most part at the bottom of the sea, a few dusty show cases full of souvenirs, pigs and pipes of black, bog oak, "Beleek" china, a fragile, and vanilla candy kind of ware, and lace 'kerchiefs "made by the nuns" alone remain to recall the tourist traffic that once centred here. To-day, one is apt to find among the souvenirs an incongruous box of our most "breathy" (forgive my new-born adjective) variety of American chewing gum. If you would imagine our base as it was in the great days, better forget the port entirely and try to think of a great British and American naval base crammed with shipping flying the national ensigns, of waters thrashed by the propellers of oil tankers, destroyers, cruisers, armed sloops, mine layers, and submarines even. A busy dockyard clangs away from morning till night; a ferry boat with a whistle like the frightened scream of a giant's child runs back and forth from the docks to the Admiralty pier, little parti-coloured motor dories run swiftly from one destroyer to another. From the hill top, this harbour appears as a pleasant cove lying among green hills. On the map, it has something the outline of a blacksmith's anvil. Taking the narrow entrance channel to be the column on which the anvil rests, there extends to the right, a long tapering bay, stretching down to a village leading over hill, over dale to tumble-down Cloyne, where saintly Berkeley long meditated on the non-existence of matter; there lies to the right a squarer, blunter bay through which a river has worn a channel. This channel lies close to the shore, and serves as the anchorage. Over the tops of the headlands, rain-coloured and tilted up to a bank of grey eastern cloud, lay the vast ambush, the merciless gauntlet of the beleaguered sea. VIII THE DESTROYER AND HER PROBLEM About a quarter of a mile apart, one after the other along the ribbon of deep water just off the shore, lie a number of Admiralty buoys about the size and shape of a small factory boiler. At these buoys, sometimes attached in little groups of two, three, and even four to the same ring bolt, lie the American destroyers. From the shore one sees the long lean hull of the nearest vessel and a clump of funnels all tilted backwards at the same angle. The air above these waspish nests, though unstained with smoke, often broods vibrant with heat. All the destroyers are camouflaged, the favourite colours being black, West Point grey and flat white. This camouflage produces neither by colour nor line the repulsive and silly effect which is for the moment so popular. Going aboard a destroyer for the first time, a lay observer is struck by their extraordinary leanness, a natural enough impression when one recalls that the vessels measure some three hundred feet in length and only thirty-four in width. Many times have I watched from our hill these long, low, rapier shapes steal swiftly out to sea, and been struck with the terror, the genuine dread that lies in the word _destroyer_. For it is a terrible word, a word heavy with destruction and vengeance, a word that is akin to many an Old Testament phrase. Our great destroyer fleet may be divided into two squadrons, the first of larger boats called "thousand tonners," the second of smaller vessels known as "flivvers." Another division parts the thousand tonners into those which have a flush deck from bow to stern, and those which have a forward deck on a higher level than the main deck. All these types burn oil, the oil burner being nothing more than a kind of sprayer whose mist of fuel a forced draft whirls into a roar of flame; all can develop a speed of at least twenty-nine knots. The armament varies with the individual vessel, the usual outfit consisting of four four-inch guns, two sets of torpedo tubes, two mounted machine guns, and a store of depth charges. These charges deserve a eulogy of their own. They have done more towards winning the war than all the giant howitzers whose calibre has stupefied the world. In appearance and mechanism they are the simplest of affairs. The Navy always refers to them as cans: "I dropped a can right on his head"; "it was the last can that did the business." Imagine an ash can of medium size painted black and transformed into a ponderous thick walled cylinder of steel crammed with some three hundred pounds of T.N.T. and you have a perfect image of one. Now imagine at one end of this cylinder a detonator protected by an arrangement which can be set to resist the pressure of water at various levels. A sub appears, and sinks swiftly. If it is just below the surface, the destroyer drops a bomb set to explode at a depth of seventy feet. The bomb then sinks by its own weight to that level at which the outward force of the protective mechanism is over-balanced by the inward pressure of the water; the end yields, the detonator crushes, the bomb explodes, and your submarine is flung horribly out of the depths almost clear of the water, and while he is up, the destroyer's guns fill the hull full of holes. Or suppose the submarine to have gone down two hundred feet. Then you drop a bomb geared to that depth upon him, and blow in his sides like a cracked egg. The sound of these engines travels through the water some twenty or twenty-five miles, and there have been ships who have caught the vibration of a distant depth bomb through their hulls and thought themselves torpedoed. I once saw a depth bomb roll off a British sloop into a half filled dry dock; the men scrambled away like mad, but returned in a few minutes to fish out a "can," that had sixty more feet to go before it could burst. It lay on the bottom harmless as a stone. The charges rest at the stern of a vessel, lying one above the other on two sloping runways, and can be released either from the stern or by hydraulic pressure applied at the bridge. The credit for this exceedingly successful scheme belongs to a distinguished American naval officer. The destroyer has but one deck which is arranged in the following manner. I take one of the "thousand tonners" as an illustration. From an incredibly lean, high bow, a first deck falls back a considerable distance to a four-inch gun; behind the gun lies another open space closed by a two-storied structure whose upper section is the bridge and whose lower section a chart room. At the rear of this structure the hull of the boat is cut away, and one descends by a ladder from the deck which is on the level of the chart room floor, to the main deck level some eight feet below. Beyond this cut but one deck lies, the mere steel covering of the hull. Guns and torpedo tubes are mounted on it, the funnels rise flush from the plates; a life line lies strung along its length, and strips of cocoa matting try to give something of a footing. The officers' quarters are to be found under the forward deck. The sleeping rooms are situated on both sides of a narrow passageway which begins at the bow and leads to the open living room and dining room space known as the ward room. In the hull, in the space beneath the wardroom lie the quarters of the crew, amidships lie the boilers and the engine room, and beyond them, a second space for the crew and the petty officers. A destroyer is by no means a paradise of comfort, though when the vessel lies in a quiet port, she can be as attractive and livable as a yacht. But Heaven help the poor sailor aboard a destroyer at sea! The craft rolls, dips, shudders, plunges like a horse straight up at the stars, sinks rapidly and horribly, and even has spells of see-sawing violently from side to side. Its worst motion is an unearthly twist,--a swift appalling rise at a dreadful angle, a toss across space to the other side of a wave, a fearful descent sideways and down and a ghastly shudder. "You need an iron stomach" to be on a destroyer is a navy saying. Some, indeed, can never get used to them, and have to be transferred to other vessels. [Illustration: American destroyer on patrol] The destroyer is the capital weapon against the submarine. She can out-race a sub, can fight him with guns, torpedoes, or depth charges; she can send him bubbling to the bottom by ramming him amidships. She can confuse him by throwing a pall of smoke over his target; she can beat off his attacks either above or below the surface. He fires a torpedo at her, she dodges, runs down the trail of the torpedo, drops a depth bomb, and brings her prey to the surface, an actual incident this. Her problem is of a dual nature, being both defensive and offensive. To-day, her orders are to escort a convoy through the danger zone to a position in latitude x and longitude y; to-morrow, her orders are to patrol a certain area of the beleaguered sea or a given length of coast. Based upon a foreign port, working in strange waters, the destroyer flotilla added to the fine history of the American Navy a splendid record of endurance, heroism and daring achievement. IX TORPEDOED If you would understand the ocean we sailed in war-time, do not forget that it was essentially an ambush, that the foe was waiting for us in hiding. Nothing real or imagined brooded over the ocean to warn a vessel of the presence of danger, for the waters engulfed and forgot the tragedies of this war as they have engulfed and forgotten all disasters since the beginning of time. The great unquiet shield of the sea stretched afar to pale horizons, the sun shone as he might shine on a pretty village at high noon, the gulls followed alert and clamorous. Yet a thundering instant was capable of transforming this apparent calm into the most formidable insecurity. In four minutes you would have nothing left of your ship and its company but a few boats, some bodies, and a miscellaneous litter of wreckage strewn about the scene of the disaster. Of the assassin there was not a sign. All agreed that the torpedo arrived at a fearful speed. "Like a long white bullet through the water," said one survivor. "Honest to God, I never saw anything come so fast," said another. "Where did it strike?" I asked the first speaker, a fine intelligent English seaman who had been rescued by a destroyer and brought to an American base. "In a line with the funnel, sir. A great column of steam and water went up together, and the pieces of the two port boats fell all around the bridge. I think it was a bit of one of the boats that struck me here." He held up a bandaged hand. "What happened then?" "All the lights went out. It was just dusk, you see, so we had to abandon the boat in the darkness. A broken steam pipe was roaring so that you couldn't hear a word any one was saying. She sank very fast." "Did you see any sign of the submarine?" "The captain's steward thought he saw something come up just about three hundred yards away as we were going down. But in my judgment, it was too dark to see anything distinctly, and my notion is that he saw a bit of wreckage, perhaps a hatch." The next man to whom I talked was a chunky little stoker who might have stepped out of the pages of one of Jacobs' stories. I shall not aim to reproduce his dialect--it was of the "wot abaht it" order. "We were heading into Falmouth with a cargo of steel and barbed wire. I had a lot of special supplies which I bought myself in New York, some sugar, two very nice 'ams and one of those round Dutch cheeses. I was always thinking to myself how glad my old woman would be to see all those vittles. Just as we got off the Scillies, one of those bloody swine hit us with a torpedo between the boiler room and the thwart ship bunker, forward of the engine room, and about sixteen feet below the water line. Understand? I was in the boiler room. Down came the bunker doors, off went the tank tops in the engine room, two of the boilers threw out a mess of burning coal, and the water came pouring in like a flood. Let me tell you that cold sea water soon got bloody hot, the room was filled with steam, couldn't see anything. I expected the boilers to blow up any minute. I yelled out for my mates. Suddenly I heard one of 'em say: 'Where's the ladder?' and there was pore Jem with his face and chest burned cruel by the flying coal, and he had two ribs broke too, though we didn't know it at the time. Says 'e, 'Where's Ed?' and just then Ed came wading through the scalding water, pawing for the ladder. So up we all went, never expecting to reach the top. Then when we got into a boat, we 'eard that the wireless had been carried away, and that we'd have to wait for somebody to pick us up. So we waited for two days and a Yankee destroyer found us. Yes, both my mates are getting better, though sister 'ere tells me that pore Ed may lose his eye." Sometimes the torpedo was seen and avoided by a quick turn of the wheel. There were other occasions when the torpedo seems to follow a ship. I remember reading this tale. "At 2.14 I saw the torpedo and felt certain that it would mean a hit either in the engine or the fire room, so I ordered full speed ahead, and put the rudder over hard left. At a distance of between two and three hundred yards, the torpedo took a sheer to the left, but righted itself. For an instant it appeared as if the torpedo might pass astern, but porpoising again, it turned toward the ship and struck us close by the propellers." So much for blind chances. One hears curious tales. The column of water caused by the explosion tossed onto the forward hatch of one merchant ship a twisted half of the torpedo; there was a French boat struck by a torpedo which did not explode, but lay there at the side violently churning, and clinging to the boat as if it were possessed of some sinister intelligence. I heard of a boat laden with high explosives within whose hold a number of motor trucks had been arranged. A torpedo got her at the mouth of the channel. An explosion similar to the one at Halifax raked the sea, the vessel, blown into fragments, disappeared from sight in the twinkling of an eye, and an instant later there fell like bolides from the startled firmament a number of immense motor trucks, one of which actually crashed on to the deck of another vessel! Meanwhile, I suppose, some hundred and fifty feet or more below, "Fritz," seated at a neat folding table, wrote it all down in his log. X THE END OF A SUBMARINE Two days before, in a spot somewhat south of the area we were going out to patrol, a submarine had attacked a convoy and sunk a horse boat. I had the story of the affair months afterwards from an American sailor who had seen it all from a nearby ship. This sailor, no other than my friend Giles, had been stationed in the lookout when he heard a thundering pound, and looking to port, he saw a column of water hanging just amidships of the torpedoed vessel, a column that broke crashing over the decks. In about three minutes the ship broke in two, the bow and the stern rising like the points of a shallow V, and in five minutes she sank. The sea was strewn with straw; there were broken stanchions floating in the confused water, and a number of horses could be seen swimming about. "All you could see was their heads; they looked awful small in all that water. Some of the horses had men hanging to them. There was a lot of yelling for help." The other ships of the convoy had run for dear life; the destroyers had raced about like hornets whose nest is disturbed, but the submarine escaped. We left a certain harbour at about three in the afternoon. Many of the destroyers were out at sea taking in a big troop convoy and the harbour seemed unusually still. The town also partook of this quiet, the long lateral lines of climbing houses staring out blankly at us like unresponsive acquaintances. Very
she has not given. The secret of friendship is just the secret of all spiritual blessing. The way to get is to give. The selfish in the end can never get anything but selfishness. The hard find hardness everywhere. As you mete, it is meted out to you. Some men have a genius for friendship. That is because they are open and responsive, and unselfish. They truly make the most of life; for apart from their special joys, even intellect is sharpened by the development of the affections. No material success in life is comparable to success in friendship. We really do ourselves harm by our selfish standards. There is an old Latin proverb,[1] expressing the worldly view, which says that it is not possible for a man to love and at the same time to be wise. This is only true when wisdom is made equal to prudence and selfishness, and when love is made the same. Rather it is never given to a man to be wise in the true and noble sense, until he is carried out of himself in the purifying passion of love, or the generosity of friendship. The self-centred being cannot keep friends, even when he makes them; his selfish sensitiveness is always in the way, like a diseased nerve ready to be irritated. The culture of friendship is a duty, as every gift represents a responsibility. It is also a necessity; for without watchful care it can no more remain with us than can any other gift. Without culture it is at best only a potentiality. We may let it slip, or we can use it to bless our lives. The miracle of friendship, which came at first with its infinite wonder and beauty, wears off, and the glory fades into the light of common day. The early charm passes, and the soul forgets the first exaltation. We are always in danger of mistaking the common for the commonplace. We must not look upon it merely as the great luxury of life, or it will cease to be even that. It begins with emotion, but if it is to remain it must become a habit. Habit is fixed when an accustomed thing is organized into life; and, whatever be the genesis of friendship, it must become a habit, or it is in danger of passing away as other impressions have done before. Friendship needs delicate handling. We can ruin it by stupid blundering at the very birth, and we can kill it by neglect. It is not every flower that has vitality enough to grow in stony ground. Lack of reticence, which is only the outward sign of lack of reverence, is responsible for the death of many a fair friendship. Worse still, it is often blighted at the very beginning by the insatiable desire for piquancy in talk, which can forget the sacredness of confidence. "An acquaintance grilled, scored, devilled, and served with mustard and cayenne pepper, excites the appetite; whereas a slice of old friend with currant jelly is but a sickly, unrelishing meat." [2] Nothing is given to the man who is not worthy to possess it, and the shallow heart can never know the joy of a friendship, for the keeping of which he is not able to fulfil the essential conditions. Here also it is true that from the man that hath not, is taken away even that which he hath. The method for the culture of friendship finds its best and briefest summary in the Golden Rule. To do to, and for, your friend what you would have him do to, and for, you, is a simple compendium of the whole duty of friendship. The very first principle of friendship is that it is a mutual thing, as among spiritual equals, and therefore it claims reciprocity, mutual confidence and faithfulness. There must be sympathy to keep in touch with each other, but sympathy needs to be constantly exercised. It is a channel of communication, which has to be kept open, or it will soon be clogged and closed. The practice of sympathy may mean the cultivation of similar tastes, though that will almost naturally follow from the fellowship. But to cultivate similar tastes does not imply either absorption of one of the partners, or the identity of both. Rather, part of the charm of the intercourse lies in the difference, which exists in the midst of agreement. What is essential is that there should be a real desire and a genuine effort to understand each other. It is well worth while taking pains to preserve a relationship so full of blessing to both. Here, as in all connections among men, there is also ample scope for patience. When we think of our own need for the constant exercise of this virtue, we will admit its necessity for others. After the first flush of communion has passed, we must see in a friend things which detract from his worth, and perhaps things which irritate us. This is only to say that no man is perfect. With tact, and tenderness and patience, it may be given us to help to remove what may be flaws in a fine character, and in any case it is foolish to forget the great virtues of our friend in fretful irritation at a few blemishes. We can keep the first ideal in our memory, even if we know that it is not yet an actual fact. We must not let our intercourse be coarsened, but must keep it sweet and delicate, that it may remain a refuge from the coarse world, a sanctuary where we leave criticism outside, and can breathe freely. _Trust_ is the first requisite for making a friend. How can we be anything but alone, if our attitude to men is one of armed neutrality, if we are suspicious, and assertive, and querulous, and over-cautious in our advances? Suspicion kills friendship. There must be some magnanimity and openness of mind, before a friendship can be formed. We must be willing to give ourselves freely and unreservedly. Some find it easier than others to make advances, because they are naturally more trustful. A beginning has to be made somehow, and if we are moved to enter into personal association with another, we must not be too cautious in displaying our feeling. If we stand off in cold reserve, the ice, which trembled to thawing, is gripped again by the black hand of frost. There may be a golden moment which has been lost through a foolish reserve. We are so afraid of giving ourselves away cheaply--and it is a proper enough feeling, the value of which we learn through sad experience--but on the whole perhaps the warm nature, which acts on impulse, is of a higher type, than the over-cautious nature, ever on the watch lest it commit itself. We can do nothing with each other, we cannot even do business with each other, without a certain amount of trust. Much more necessary is it in the beginning of a deeper intercourse. And if trust is the first requisite for making a friend, _faithfulness_ is the first requisite for keeping him. The way to have a friend is to be a friend. Faithfulness is the fruit of trust. We must be ready to lay hold of every opportunity which occurs of serving our friend. Life is made up to most of us of little things, and many a friendship withers through sheer neglect. Hearts are alienated, because each is waiting for some great occasion for displaying affection. The great spiritual value of friendship lies in the opportunities it affords for service, and if these are neglected it is only to be expected that the gift should be taken from us. Friendship, which begins with sentiment, will not live and thrive on sentiment. There must be loyalty, which finds expression in service. It is not the greatness of the help, or the intrinsic value of the gift, which gives it its worth, but the evidence it is of love and thoughtfulness. Attention to detail is the secret of success in every sphere of life, and little kindnesses, little acts of considerateness, little appreciations, little confidences, are all that most of us are called on to perform, but they are all that are needed to keep a friendship sweet. Such thoughtfulness keeps our sentiment in evidence to both parties. If we never show our kind feeling, what guarantee has our friend, or even ourself, that it exists? Faithfulness in deed is the outward result of constancy of soul, which is the rarest, and the greatest, of virtues. If there has come to us the miracle of friendship, if there is a soul to which our soul has been drawn, it is surely worth while being loyal and true. Through the little occasions for helpfulness, we are training for the great trial, if it should ever come, when the fabric of friendship will be tested to the very foundation. The culture of friendship, and its abiding worth, never found nobler expression than in the beautiful proverb,[3] "A friend loveth at all times, and is a brother born for adversity." Most men do not deserve such a gift from heaven. They look upon it as a convenience, and accept the privilege of love without the responsibility of it. They even use their friends for their own selfish purposes, and so never have true friends. Some men shed friends at every step they rise in the social scale. It is mean and contemptible to merely use men, so long as they further one's personal interests. But there is a nemesis on such heartlessness. To such can never come the ecstasy and comfort of mutual trust. This worldly policy can never truly succeed. It stands to reason that they cannot have brothers born for adversity, and cannot count on the joy of the love that loveth at all times; for they do not possess the quality which secures it. To act on the worldly policy, to treat a friend as if he might become an enemy, is of course to be friendless. To sacrifice a tried and trusted friend for any personal advantage of gain or position, is to deprive our own heart of the capacity for friendship. The passion for novelty will sometimes lead a man to act like this. Some shallow minds are ever afflicted by a craving for new experiences. They sit very loosely to the past. They are the easy victims of the untried, and yearn perpetually for novel sensations. In this matter of friendship they are ready to forsake the old for the new. They are always finding a swan in every goose they meet. They have their reward in a widowed heart. Says Shakespeare in his great manner,-- The friends thou hast and their adoption tried Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel, But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. The culture of friendship must pass into the consecration of friendship, if it is to reach its goal. It is a natural evolution. Friendship cannot be permanent unless it becomes spiritual. There must be fellowship in the deepest things of the soul, community in the highest thoughts, sympathy with the best endeavors. We are bartering the priceless boon, if we are looking on friendship merely as a luxury, and not as a spiritual opportunity. It is, or can be, an occasion for growing in grace, for learning love, for training the heart to patience and faith, for knowing the joy of humble service. We are throwing away our chance, if we are not striving to be an inspiring and healthful environment to our friend. We are called to be our best to our friend, that he may be his best to us, bringing out what is highest and deepest in the nature of both. The culture of friendship is one of the approved instruments of culture of the heart, without which a man has not truly come into his kingdom. It is often only the beginning, but through tender and careful culture it may be an education for the larger life of love. It broadens out in ever-widening circles, from the particular to the general, and from the general to the universal--from the individual to the social, and from the social to God. The test of religion is ultimately a very simple one. If we do not love those whom we have seen, we cannot love those whom we have not seen. All our sentiment about people at a distance, and our heart-stirrings for the distressed and oppressed, and our prayers for the heathen, are pointless and fraudulent, if we are neglecting the occasions for service lying to our hand. If we do not love our brethren here, how can we love our brethren elsewhere, except as a pious sentimentality? And if we do not love those we have seen, how can we love God whom we have not seen? This is the highest function of friendship, and is the reason why it needs thoughtful culture. We should be led to God by the joy of our lives as well as by the sorrow, by the light as well as by the darkness, by human intercourse as well as by human loneliness. He is the Giver of every good gift. We wound His heart of love, when we sin against love. The more we know of Christ's spirit, and the more we think of the meaning of God's fathomless grace, the more will we be convinced that the way to please the Father and to follow the Son is to cultivate the graces of kindliness and gentleness and tenderness, to give ourselves to the culture of the heart. Not in the ecclesiastical arena, not in polemic for a creed, not in self-assertion and disputings, do we please our Master best, but in the simple service of love. To seek the good of men is to seek the glory of God. They are not two things, but one and the same. To be a strong hand in the dark to another in the time of need, to be a cup of strength to a human soul in a crisis of weakness, is to know the glory of life. To be a true friend, saving his faith in man, and making him believe in the existence of love, is to save his faith in God. And such service is possible for all. We need not wait for the great occasion and for the exceptional opportunity. We can never be without our chance, if we are ready to keep the miracle of love green in our hearts by humble service. The primal duties shine aloft like stars. The charities that soothe and heal and bless, Are scattered at the feet of man like flowers. [1] _Non simul cuiquam conceditur, amare et sapere_. [2] Thackeray, _Roundabout Papers_. [3] Proverbs xvii. 17, R. V. margin. The Fruits of Friendship Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.--ECCLESIASTES. O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red, All things through thee take nobler form And look beyond the earth, And is the mill-round of our fate, A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair. EMERSON. The Fruits of Friendship In our utilitarian age things are judged by their practical value. Men ask of everything, What is its use? Nothing is held to be outside criticism, neither the law because of its authority, nor religion because of its sacredness. Every relationship in life also has been questioned, and is asked to show the reason of its existence. Even some relationships like marriage, for long held to be above question, are put into the crucible. On the whole it is a good spirit, though it can be abused and carried to an absurd extreme. Criticism is inevitable, and ought to be welcomed, provided we are careful about the true standard to apply. When we judge a thing by its use, we must not have a narrow view of what utility is. Usefulness to man is not confined to mere material values. The common standards of the market-place cannot be applied to the whole of life. The things which cannot be bought cannot be sold, and the keenest valuator would be puzzled to put a price on some of these unmarketable wares. When we seek to show what are the fruits of friendship, we may be said to put ourselves in line with the critical spirit of our age. But even if it were proven that a man could make more of his life materially by himself, if he gave no hostages to fortune, it would not follow that it is well to disentangle oneself from the common human bonds; for our _caveat_ would here apply, that utility is larger than mere material gain. But even from this point of view friendship justifies itself. Two are better than one; for they have a good reward for their labor. The principle of association in business is now accepted universally. It is found even to pay, to share work and profit. Most of the world's business is done by companies, or partnerships, or associated endeavor of some kind. And the closer the intimacy between the men so engaged, the intimacy of common desires and common purposes, and mutual respect and confidence, and, if possible, friendship, the better chance there is for success. Two are better than one from the point of view even of the reward of each, and a threefold cord is not quickly broken, when a single strand would snap. When men first learned, even in its most rudimentary sense, that union is strength, the dawn of civilization began. For offence and for defence, the principle of association early proved itself the fittest for survival. The future is always with Isaac, not with Ishmael--with Jacob, not with Esau. In everything this is seen, in the struggle of races, or trade, or ideas. Even as a religious method to make an impact on the world, it is true. John of the Desert touched here a life, and there a life; Jesus of Nazareth, seeking disciples, founding a society, moved the world to its heart. It is not necessary to labor this point, that two are better than one, to a commercial age like ours, which, whatever it does not know, at least knows its arithmetic. We would say that it is self-evident, that by the law of addition it is double, and by the law of multiplication twice the number. But it is not so exact as that, nor so self-evident. When we are dealing with men, our ready-reckoner rules do not work out correctly. In this region one and one are not always two. They are sometimes more than two, and sometimes less than two. Union of all kinds, which may be strength, may be weakness. It was not till Gideon weeded out his army, once and twice, that he was promised victory. The fruits of friendship may be corrupting, and unspeakably evil to the life. The reward of the labor of two may be less than that of one. The boy pulling a barrow is lucky if he get another boy to shove behind, but if the boy behind not only ceases to shove, but sits on the barrow, the last end is worse than the first. A threefold cord with two of the strands rotten is worse than a single sound strand, for it deceives into putting too much weight on it. In social economics it is evident that society is not merely the sum of the units that compose it. Two are better than one, not merely because the force is doubled. It may even be said that two are better than two. Two together mean more than two added singly; for a new element is introduced which increases the power of each individually. When the man Friday came into the life of Robinson Crusoe, he brought with him a great deal more than his own individual value, which with his lower civilization would not be very much. But to Robinson Crusoe he represented society, and all the possibilities of social polity. It meant also the satisfaction of the social instincts, the play of the affections, and made Crusoe a different man. The two living together were more than the two living on different desert islands. The truth of this strange contradiction of the multiplication table is seen in the relationship of friends. Each gives to the other, and each receives, and the fruit of the intercourse is more than either in himself possesses. Every individual relationship has contact with a universal. To reach out to the fuller life of love is a divine enchantment, because it leads to more than itself, and is the open door into the mystery of life. We feel ourselves united to the race and no longer isolated units, but in the sweep of the great social forces which mould mankind. Every bond which binds man to man is a new argument for the permanence of life itself, and gives a new insight into its meaning. Love is the pledge and the promise of the future. Besides this cosmic and perhaps somewhat shadowy benefit, there are many practical fruits of friendship to the individual. These may be classified and subdivided almost endlessly, and indeed in every special friendship the fruits of it will differ according to the character and closeness of the tie, and according to the particular gifts of each of the partners. One man can give to his friend some quality of sympathy, or some kind of help, or can supply some social need which is lacking in his character or circumstances. Perhaps it is not possible to get a better division of the subject than the three noble fruits of friendship which Bacon enumerates--peace in the affections, support of the judgment, and aid in all actions and occasions. First of all there is the _satisfaction of the heart_. We cannot live a self-centred life, without feeling that we are missing the true glory of life. We were made for social intercourse, if only that the highest qualities of our nature might have an opportunity for development. The joy, which a true friendship gives, reveals the existence of the want of it, perhaps previously unfelt. It is a sin against ourselves to let our affections wither. This sense of incompleteness is an argument in favor of its possible satisfaction; our need is an argument for its fulfilment. Our hearts demand love, as truly as our bodies demand food. We cannot live among men, suspicious, and careful of our own interests, and fighting for our own hand, without doing dishonor and hurt to our own nature. To be for ourselves puts the whole world against us. To harden our heart hardens the heart of the universe. We need sympathy, and therefore we crave for friendship. Even the most perfect of the sons of men felt this need of intercourse of the heart. Christ, in one aspect the most self-contained of men, showed this human longing all through His life. He ever desired opportunities for enlargement of heart--in His disciples, in an inner circle within the circle, in the household of Bethany. "Will ye also go away?" He asked in the crisis of His career. "Could ye not watch with Me one hour?" He sighed in His great agony. He was perfectly human, and therefore felt the lack of friendship. The higher our relationships with each other are, the closer is the intercourse demanded. Highest of all in the things of the soul, we feel that the true Christian life cannot be lived in the desert, but must be a life among men, and this because it is a life of joy as well as of service. We feel that, for the founding of our life and the completion of our powers, we need intercourse with our kind. Stunted affections dwarf the whole man. We live by admiration, hope, and love, and these can be developed only in the social life. The sweetest and most stable pleasures also are never selfish. They are derived from fellowship, from common tastes, and mutual sympathy. Sympathy is not a quality merely needed in adversity. It is needed as much when the sun shines. Indeed, it is more easily obtained in adversity than in prosperity. It is comparatively easy to sympathize with a friend's _failure_, when we are not so true-hearted about his success. When a man is down in his luck, he can be sure of at least a certain amount of good-fellowship to which he can appeal. It is difficult to keep a little touch of malice, or envy, out of congratulations. It is sometimes easier to weep with those who weep, than to rejoice with those who rejoice. This difficulty is felt not with people above us, or with little connection with us, but with our equals. When a friend succeeds, there may be a certain regret which has not always an evil root, but is due to a fear that he is getting beyond our reach, passing out of our sphere, and perhaps will not need or desire our friendship so much as before. It is a dangerous feeling to give way to, but up to a certain point is natural and legitimate. A perfect friendship would not have room for such grudging sympathy, but would rejoice more for the other's success than for his own. The envious, jealous man never can be a friend. His mean spirit of detraction and insinuating ill-will kills friendship at its birth. Plutarch records a witty remark about Plistarchus, who was told that a notorious railer had spoken well of him. "I'll lay my life," said he, "somebody has told him I am dead, for he can speak well of no man living." For true satisfaction of the heart, there must be a fount of sympathy from which to draw in all the vicissitudes of life. Sorrow asks for sympathy, aches to let its griefs be known and shared by a kindred spirit. To find such, is to dispel the loneliness from life. To have a heart which we can trust, and into which we can pour our griefs and our doubts and our fears, is already to take the edge from grief, and the sting from doubt, and the shade from fear. Joy also demands that its joy should be shared. The man who has found his sheep that was lost calls together his neighbors, and bids them rejoice with him because he has found the sheep that was lost. Joy is more social than grief. Some forms of grief desire only to creep away into solitude like a wounded beast to its lair, to suffer alone and to die alone. But joy finds its counterpart in the sunshine and the flowers and the birds and the little children, and enters easily into all the movements of life. Sympathy will respond to a friend's gladness, as well as vibrate to his grief. A simple generous friendship will thus add to the joy, and will divide the sorrow. The religious life, in spite of all the unnatural experiments of monasticism and all its kindred ascetic forms, is preëminently a life of friendship. It is individual in its root, and social in its fruits. It is when two or three are gathered together that religion becomes a fact for the world. The joy of religion will not be hid and buried in a man's own heart. "Come, see a man that told me all that ever I did," is the natural outcome of the first wonder and the first faith. It spreads from soul to soul by the impact of soul on soul, from the original impact of the great soul of God. Christ's ideal is the ideal of a Kingdom, men banded together in a common cause, under common laws, serving the same purpose of love. It is meant to take effect upon man in all his social relationships, in the home, in the city, in the state. Its greatest triumphs have been made through friendship, and it in turn has ennobled and sanctified the bond. The growth of the Kingdom depends on the sanctified working of the natural ties among men. It was so at the very start; John the Baptist pointed out the Christ to John the future Apostle and to Andrew; Andrew findeth his own brother Simon Peter; Philip findeth Nathanael; and so society through its network of relations took into its heart the new message. The man who has been healed must go and tell those who are at home, must declare it to his friends, and seek that they also should share in his great discovery. The very existence of the Church as a body of believers is due to this necessity of our nature, which demands opportunity for the interchange of Christian sentiment. The deeper the feeling, the greater is the joy of sharing it with another. There is a strange felicity, a wondrous enchantment, which comes from true intimacy of heart, and close communion of soul, and the result is more than mere fleeting joy. When it is shared in the deepest thoughts and highest aspirations, when it is built on a common faith, and lives by a common hope, it brings perfect peace. No friendship has done its work until it reaches the supremest satisfaction of spiritual communion. Besides this satisfaction of the heart, friendship also gives _satisfaction of the mind_. Most men have a certain natural diffidence in coming to conclusions and forming opinions for themselves. We rarely feel confident, until we have secured the agreement of others in whom we trust. There is always a personal equation in all our judgments, so that we feel that they require to be amended by comparison with those of others. Doctors ask for a consultation, when a case becomes critical. We all realize the advantage of taking counsel. To ask for advice is a benefit, whether we follow the advice or no. Indeed, the best benefit often comes from the opportunity of testing our own opinion and finding it valid. Sometimes the very statement of the case is enough to prove it one thing or the other. An advantage is reaped from a sympathetic listener, even although our friend be unable to elucidate the matter by his special sagacity or experience. Friends in counsel gain much intellectually. They acquire something approaching to a standard of judgment, and are enabled to classify opinions, and to make up the mind more accurately and securely. Through talking a subject over with another, one gets fresh side-lights into it, new avenues open up, and the whole question becomes larger and richer. Bacon says, "Friendship maketh daylight in the understanding, out of darkness and confusion of thoughts: neither is this to be understood only of faithful counsel, which a man receiveth from his friend; but before you come to that, certain it is, that whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and understanding do clarify and break up in the communicating and discoursing with another; he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he marshalleth them more orderly; he seeth how they look when they are turned into words; finally he waxeth wiser than himself; and that more by an hour's discourse than by a day's meditation." We must have been struck with the brilliancy of our own conversation and the profundity of our own thoughts, when we shared them with one, with whom we were in sympathy at the time. The brilliancy was not ours; it was the reflex action which was the result of the communion. That is why the effect of different people upon us is different, one making us creep into our shell and making us unable almost to utter a word; another through some strange magnetism enlarging the bounds of our whole being and drawing the best out of us. The true insight after all is love. It clarifies the intellect, and opens the eyes to much that was obscure. Besides the subjective influence, there may be the great gain of honest counsel. A faithful friend can be trusted not to speak merely soft words of flattery. It is often the spectator who sees most of the game, and, if the spectator is at the same time keenly interested in us, he can have a more unbiased opinion than we can possibly have. He may have to say that which may wound our self-esteem; he may have to speak for correction rather than for commendation; but "Faithful are the wounds of a friend." The flatterer will take good care not to offend our susceptibilities by too many shocks of wholesome truth-telling; but a friend will seek our good, even if he must say the thing we hate to hear at the time. This does not mean that a friend should always be what is called plain-spoken. Many take advantage of what they call a true interest in our welfare, in order to rub gall into our wounds. The man who boasts of his frankness and of his hatred of flattery, is usually not frank--but only brutal. A true friend will never needlessly hurt, but also will never let slip occasions through cowardice. To speak the truth in love takes off the edge of unpleasantness, which so often is found in truth-speaking. And however the wound may smart, in the end we are thankful for the faithfulness which caused it. "Let the righteous smite me; it shall be a kindness: and let him reprove me; it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head." In our relations with each other, there is usually more advantage to be reaped from friendly encouragement, than from friendly correction. True criticism does not consist, as so many critics seem to think, in depreciation, but in appreciation; in putting oneself sympathetically in another's position, and seeking to value the real worth of his work. There are more lives spoiled by undue harshness, than by undue gentleness. More good work is lost from want of appreciation than from too much of it; and certainly it is not the function of friendship to do the critic's work. Unless carefully repressed, such a spirit becomes censorious, or, worse still, spiteful, and has often been the means of losing a friend. It is possible to be kind, without giving crooked counsel, or oily flattery; and it is possible to be true, without magnifying faults, and indulging in cruel rebukes. Besides the joy of friendship, and its aid in matters of counsel, a third of its noble fruits is the direct _help_ it can give us in the difficulties of life. It gives strength to the character. It sobers and steadies through the responsibility for each other which it means. When men face the world together, and are ready to stand shoulder to shoulder, the sense of comradeship makes each strong. This help may not often be called into play, but just to know that it is there if needed is a great comfort, to know that if one fall the other will lift him up. The very word friendship suggests kindly help and aid in distress. Shakespeare applies the word in _King Lear_ to an inanimate thing with this meaning of helpfulness,-- Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some _friendship_ will it lend you 'gainst the tempest. Sentiment does not amount to much, if it is not an inspiring force to lead to gentle and to generous deeds, when there is need. The fight is not so hard, when we know that we are not alone, but that there are some who think of us, and pray for us, and would gladly help us if they get the opportunity. Comradeship is one of the finest facts, and one of the strongest forces in life. A mere strong man, however capable, and however singly successful, is of little account by himself. There is no glamour of romance in his career. The kingdom of Romance belongs to David, not to Samson--to David, with his eager, impetuous, affectionate nature, for whom three
a state of subjection to none. He will take a pleasure in yielding, of his own free will, to talents, attainments, and high character, their just due. But this must be the result of his own opinion as to what is right, and not the effect of base submission to another's will. C. The communication which follows on the subject of that remarkable kind of "extemporaneous speaking" which has been long practised in some parts of Europe, but is entirely unknown in this country,--is entitled to the reader's attention not only on account of the source from which it is derived, but also from its intrinsic merit. An accomplished _improvvisatore_ is certainly an intellectual phenomenon, of the existence of which we should be strongly inclined to doubt--if so many well attested facts did not establish it beyond all controversy. We hope that some one of our readers of taste and erudition will furnish a handsome translation of the Italian poetry which accompanies the article. {7} For the Southern Literary Messenger. EXTEMPORANEOUS SPEAKING. Astonishing as it may appear, there are men who can deliver extemporaneously, not only excellent orations and discourses, but also beautiful poems, tragedies and comedies. Exhibitions of this kind have been so frequent, that no deception can possibly exist. You may even specify the measure in which you desire the poetical production, and the verses, as if inspired, will flow from the lips of the _improvvisatore_, with ease, elegance, and beauty. When I was in Paris, Sgricci extemporized several tragedies in Italian.[1] Eugene Pradel delivered a poem on Columbus, and proposed to extemporize tragedies and operas in French. Manuel could at any time speak appropriately and eloquently without preparation. The number of _improvvisatori_ is very great, and I might enumerate, if necessary, many of these distinguished men. Italy boasts of the names of several ladies who have acquired fame by their poetical extempore compositions, among whom I may mention the Bandettini, the Mazei and the Corilla. This fact being admitted, two questions arise--1st. Is it possible to acquire this wonderful talent? 2nd. What are the means to be employed in order to succeed in speaking extemporaneously? To the first question, I answer affirmatively.--The talent of speaking extempore is always an acquired one: all good _improvvisatori_ have followed a course of mental exercises. Illustrious men at first uttered a few words with stammering tongues, then spoke hesitatingly--and by proper combinations of their intellectual faculties, became the extraordinary _improvvisatori_, who excite wonder and admiration. Experience shows the truth of this assertion. The second question is, what are the means to be employed in order to succeed in speaking extempore? They are numerous, and they must be pursued with that enthusiasm and perseverance, without which, a man can never reach the temple of fame: for he who feels the noble ambition of distinguishing himself from the crowd which surrounds him--he who wishes to leave traces of his passage on earth, and to raise a monument which ages shall not destroy--must be moved by an energetic spirit, and have the moral courage to banish mental indolence from his bosom--to shake off that apathy so fatal to intellectual improvement, and to imbibe that love of immortality, which will carry him triumphantly through his career. He will bear in mind meanwhile, that "Aucun chemin de fleurs ne conduit à la gloire," and deeply impressed with this important truth, will display the energy necessary to overcome all difficulties. I will not say that it is easy--that it requires but little labor to become a good extempore speaker. Still less will I advance the false opinion, that some men are naturally so. You will perceive by what follows, that I am far from believing it. What are the preliminary acquirements of a good _improvvisatore_? He must embrace the whole circle of human knowledge. He must know the fundamental principles of nearly all the arts and sciences, (I do not mean by this, that it is necessary he should possess the details connected with them--that is above human strength)--he must be acquainted with all the revolutions in which human genius has been displayed--he must be familiar with all important discoveries, and with the deeds of great men, in all ages and countries. He must be a cosmopolite, that is to say, he must be acquainted with the customs {8} and manners of every nation--and it is necessary he should put aside his prejudices, in order to understand the peculiarities which characterize the members of the great human family. The wonders of nature must be impressed on his mind, and above all, he must have read and meditated upon the works of the classical writers of all nations, and know perfectly the beauties and genius of his own language. These are the materials of the _improvvisatore_,--but these acquirements, extensive as they are, will not give him the power of extemporizing. How often do we see men endowed with profound wisdom,--vast experience and learning,--unable to express and convey to others the result of their long meditations! The reason of this is obvious. How could the man who devotes the whole of his time to the acquisition of sciences, expect to express himself well, if he neglects to study the only art which can teach him the means of speaking fluently and extempore? When a man has learned the arts and sciences of which I have spoken--when he has examined the political, religious and philosophical opinions which have governed the world from the remotest ages--he sees that the number of original ideas is not as great as one might suppose--he perceives that all mental faculties are connected--and that there is a chain which unites all thoughts--that they proceed from each other--that an idea must spring from a cause which gives rise to it. Thus he studies the laws of reasoning--thus by practice he learns to fix his attention on his sensations, and sometimes a single sensation, when properly analyzed, presents him the substance of a whole discourse: for a good discourse is nothing more than _a series of judgments_ logically deduced from each other,--_it is a chain of ideas connected by a close analogy_. By training his mind to logical deductions, he acquires by degrees, the facility of combining ideas; and, guided by analogy, he reasons correctly without effort. Reasoning is learned like languages. At first, we hesitate in placing the words of a foreign tongue--we are obliged to recollect the rule which is to guide us in every part of speech; but when thoroughly versed in the genius of the language, we speak it fluently, without thinking about the arrangement of words. So it is with reasoning. A man who is equally versed in several languages, may express his ideas without knowing at the moment, in what idiom he imbodies his thoughts. A man who has trained his mind logically, reasons well, without thinking about the principles which guide him. It is well known that men have many ideas in common, and very often an author becomes popular and illustrious, only because he expresses with great superiority and beauty, that which every body thinks and feels. This is the very foundation of poetry and eloquence. It is this art which is called _nature_, and which gives immortality to literary productions. The work which does not awake our sympathy--which is not in harmony with the feelings of our nature--and which is not expressed in words best suited to its subject, can never acquire fame for its author. Hence the importance of the _improvvisatore's_ studying mankind--hence the necessity of learning to imbody his ideas in appropriate language.--As each _passion_ has its peculiar expression and style, the _improvvisatore_ must engrave on his mind, the _association_ of suitable expressions for every _feeling_; so, that every time he experiences or brings back to his memory a _sensation_, a _passion_, or an _idea_, he may also, simultaneously recall the words best suited to express them. He must acquire the faculty of bringing before his mind, all the scenes of nature--and the passions which spring from the heart of man; and, at the same time, possess language to convey them with eloquence. His imagination must be active, impetuous, or overwhelming, according to the objects which he intends to describe. The mind of the _improvvisatore_ must be exercised to employ every style: the simple--the flowery--the majestic--the pathetic--the sublime--to combine ideas with the rapidity of lightning;--in a word, he must know all the springs of the human heart, in order to move it at his will, as if by enchantment. Although it may seem paradoxical, it is seldom for want of ideas, that a man fails in being eloquent. Thought is always ready--always instantaneous. Learn to extemporize its expression. Where is the man who surrounded by an indignant people, breaking the chains of despotism, and defending their sacred rights with courage and patriotism--where is the man, I say, who, at the sight of such a spectacle, could remain unmoved? Where is the man who could not be eloquent, were his mind provided with expressions worthy of his thoughts? Where is the man who can be thoughtless at the view of a vessel beaten by the tempestuous billows in the midst of the ocean--when he perceives this frail nautic dwelling at war with infuriated storms--when on a sudden he sees the long agitated ship breaking asunder, and every human being which she contains scattered and struggling against death? In this frightful scene, where darting lightnings are shedding their vacillating light on the ghastly faces of expiring victims, and when the last beam of earthly hope is to be buried with them in the bosom of the deep,--can that spectator be unconcerned? No. His very soul shudders--his limbs are trembling, and his eyes filled with tears. Are not these feelings impressed in the bosom of every human being? If the witness of such a shipwreck could imbody faithfully in language his sensations at the moment he experiences them, could he fail to excite our sympathy? No--no--a man who has ready {9} expressions to convey his thoughts and feelings will always be eloquent. I need not mention Demosthenes and Cicero, Æschines and Hortensius, Isocrates, Lysias, Pericles, and a crowd of sophists who displayed, in former ages, great skill in the art of speaking. Their writings have been the mental food for those who studied antiquity. In modern times, lord Chatham, Fox, Pitt, Burke, Sheridan, Canning, have shone in the British House of Commons, and their fame is familiar to every American scholar. I will only name some of those illustrious men who displayed splendid abilities in the different political assemblies of France. Who has not heard of the astonishing oratorical powers of Mirabeau, Maury, Barnave and Vergniaud the pride of the Gironde? Manuel, Foy, Benjamin Constant, Lamarque, and several others have of late added a new lustre to French eloquence. All these eminent orators were distinguished for their improvisations. My intention now is not to discuss their peculiar merit as men of genius and extempore speakers; I merely quote them as models. I must not omit mentioning three orators now wandering in exile, after having displayed in their native land all the magic of eloquence, in order to restore liberty to their enslaved country. Though the efforts of Galiano, Argüelles and Martinez de la Rosa were not crowned with success, they will ever be the pride of Spain. These gifted patriots, struggling against adversity and preserving their noble independence, deserve the admiration of mankind.[2] In concluding, I may say that the power of combining just and useful ideas, and expressing them extemporaneously in an appropriate language--the knowledge of man and of every thing which concerns him--a strong and well modulated voice, and dignified gestures, constitute what is called a _good improvvisatore_. Few succeed in all the multifarious qualifications of an extempore speaker--few are led by this unabated enthusiastic spirit resolved to meet and triumph over difficulties. This disposition of mind, however, must exist--for in mental contention as in war, "A vaincre sans péril on triomphe sans gloire." And every one that has witnessed the wonders of this art, will grant that if there be a talent by which the powers of man are exhibited in all their sublimity, it is undoubtedly that of the accomplished _improvvisatore_. J. H. [Footnote 1: It was in 1825 that Sgricci invited the literati of Paris to meet in a spacious hall, where he was to extemporize a tragedy. Every spectator was allowed to vote for the subject of the play, and the majority decided in favor of _the Death of Charles I_. A few moments afterwards, Sgricci explained the _dramatis personæ_, and began to deliver extempore a tragedy of about _fifteen hundred verses!_ That production was printed, and many passages are full of poetical talent. Francisco Gianni extemporized, during one year, every morning and evening, two pieces of poetry under the title of _Saluto del Matino_, and _Saluto de la Sera_. In order that the lovers of Italian poetry may judge Gianni's skill in extemporising, I will quote as a specimen, one of his productions. SALUTO DE LA SERA. Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda. _Dant. Parad._ cant. 1. Or non più de' pianti miei Che parean cangiate in rose. Violette inumidite, Ma nel punto che più fiso Non andrete impietesite. In te gli occhi disbramava, A infiorar quel niveo petto, Cui tra il velo già diviso Che diè funebre ricetto Agitato in sen balsava; Al più amabil degli Dei: Ecce uscir con la facella Chè li dove tomba avea, Da quel sen tra fiore e fiore, Sorger vidilo in subito Ecco uscir volando amore; E sorgendo sorridea E col vento de le penne D'un tal riso, ch'io non dubito, Irritare cosi quella, Per deludermi l'accorto, Che più fervida divenne Abbia únto d' esser morto. E una sua scintilla ardente E tu, bell' amica, in vano, Nel mio cor passò repente: Tenti in van col tuo rigore Come fosca nube tetra, Di celarmi un tanto arcano; Quando in Ciel risorgì il sole, Che mal puù celarsi amore. Se d' un raggio la penetra, Beu del suo risorgimento, Arder tutta e splender suole. Beu m' avvidi nel momento Tale in esso quella immensa Che di lagrime e di fiori Ed antica flamma intensa Io gli offriva il don funebre; Che sembrava spenta affatto Porche allor le tue palpebre Rallumavasi ad un tratto; Un soave e chiare lume E più viva traboccarsi Abbelliva di splendori; Dal mio cor con dolce pena, E le guancie a poco a poco E veloce diramarsi Rosseggiaro oltra il costume La sentii di vena in vena, D' una porpora di fuoco; E di vena in vena errando, Et il tornito sen venusto, Risalir più accesa al core, Che balzando allor più gia Che tremando, va mancando Lo spiraglio meno angusto Di dolcezza a tanto ardore. Fea del vel che lo copria: Onde più de' pianti miei Sin le caste violette Violette inumidite, Che locate su quel seno, Non andrete impietesite Già languenti venian meno, A infiorar quel niveo petto, In sembianze lascivette Che diè funebre ricetto Arrossian si grazione, Al più amabil degli Dei.] [Footnote 2: Since this was written, the late political events of Spain have placed Martinez de la Rosa at the head of the ministry of the regent queen, Isabella. Supported by the count of Toreno, who is considered as the first statesman of his country, Gareli, who is known by his great talents, general Llander, minister of war, and Remisa, minister of finance, the Spanish government has at last published the _Estatuto Real_, which regulate the convocation of the _Cortes_.] INTERESTING RUINS ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK. If we do not err in the conjecture, our correspondent "NUGATOR" has frequently charmed the public by his writings both in prose and verse. But whether we are right or wrong, we can assure him that he will always find a ready demand for his "wares" at our "emporium." According to his request we have handed the inscription to a classical friend, whose elegant translation we also subjoin with the original. For the Southern Literary Messenger. Mr. White,--As I find you are about to establish a sort of Literary Emporium, to which every man, no matter how trifling his capital of ideas, may send his productions, I have resolved to transmit to you my small wares and merchandise. The relation I shall bear to your other correspondents, will be that, which the vender of trifles in a town bears to the wealthy merchant; and, therefore, I shall assume an appropriate title, and under this humble signature, shall consider myself at liberty to offer you any thing I may have, without order or method, and just as I can lay my hands upon it.--My head is somewhat like Dominie Sampson's, which as well as I remember, resembled a pawnbroker's shop where a goodly store of things were piled together, but in such confusion, he could never find what he wanted. When I get hold of any thing, however, I will send it to you, and if it be worth nothing, why just "martyr it by a pipe." NUGATOR. "Here lived, so might it seem to Fancy's eye, The lordly Barons of _our_ feudal day; On every side, lo! grandeur's relics lie Scatter'd in ruin o'er their coffin'd clay.-- How vain for man, short-sighted man, to say What course the tide of human things shall take! How little dream'd the Founder, that decay So soon his splendid edifice should shake, And of its high pretence, a cruel mock'ry make." There cannot be a more striking exemplification of the powerful influence of laws upon the state of society, than is exhibited on the banks of the rivers in the lower part of Virginia. How many spacious structures are seen there, hastening to decay, which were once the seats of grandeur and a magnificent hospitality! The barons of old were scarcely more despotic over their immediate demesnes, than were the proprietors of these noble mansions, with their long train of servants and dependents; their dicta were almost paramount to law throughout their extensive and princely possessions. But since the introduction of republican institutions, and the alteration in the laws respecting the descent of property, and more especially since the "docking of entails," a total change has been effected. Our castles are crumbling on every side--estates are subdivided into minuter portions, instead of being transmitted to the eldest son; and so complete is the revolution in sentiment, that he would be deemed a savage, who would now leave the greater part of his family destitute, for the sake of aggrandizing an individual. It is not unusual to find a son in possession of the once splendid establishment of his fathers, with scarcely paternal acres enough to afford him sustenance, and hardly wood enough to warm a single chamber of all his long suite of apartments. The old family coach, with his mother and sisters, lumbers along after a pair of superannuated skeletons; and some faithful domestic, like Caleb {10} Balderstone, is put to the most desperate shifts to support the phantom of former grandeur. Debts are fast swallowing up the miserable remnant of what was once a principality, while some wealthy democrat of the neighborhood, who has accumulated large sums by despising an empty show, is ready to foreclose his mortgage, and send the wretched heir of Ravenswood to mingle with the Bucklaws and Craigengelts of the west. Many a story of deep interest might be written upon the old state of things in Virginia, if we possessed some indefatigable Jedidiah Cleishbotham to collect the traditions of our ancestors. Those who took part in our revolutionary struggle were too much enlightened not to foresee these consequences, and therefore deserve immortal credit for their disinterested opposition to Great Britain. Had they been aristocrats instead of the purest republicans, they would surely have thrown their weight into the opposite scale. We do not estimate enough the merit of the rich men of that day. The danger is now past--the mighty guerdon won--the storm is gone over, and the sun beams brightly: but though bright our day, it was then a dark unknown--dark as the hidden path beyond the grave--and it was nobly dared to risk their all in defence of liberty. They knew that freedom spurned a vain parade, and would not bow in homage to high-born wealth; yet their splendid possessions were staked upon the desperate throw, and the glorious prize was won. Such were not the anticipations of the _founders_ of these establishments; but such was surely the merit of their sons: and it is painful to think how few, of all who engaged in that noble struggle, have been handed down to fame. Many a one, whose name has been loudly sounded through the earth, would have shrunk from such a sacrifice, and clung to his paternal hearth; and yet these modern Curtii, who renounced the advantages of birth, and leaped into the gulf for their country's sake, have not won a single garland for their Roman worth. There is a scene in the county of Lancaster, where these reflections pressed themselves very forcibly upon my mind. Imagine an ample estate on the margin of the Rappahannock--with its dilapidated mansion house--the ruins of an extensive wall, made to arrest the inroads of the waves, as if the proprietor felt himself a Canute, and able to stay the progress of the sea--a church of the olden time, beautiful in structure, and built of brick brought from England, then the home of our people. Like Old Mortality, I love to chisel out the moss covered letters of a tombstone; and below I send you the result of my labors, with a request that some of your correspondents will take the trouble to give you a faithful translation of the Latin inscription. The only difficulty consists in a want of knowledge of the names of the officers under the colonial government. The epitaph will show by whom the church was built, and the motive for its erection. In the yard are three tombstones conspicuous above the rest, beneath which repose the bones of the once lordly proprietor of the soil and his two wives. How vain are human efforts to perpetuate by monuments the memory of the great! The sepulchre of Osymandus is said by Diodorus to have been a mile and a quarter in circumference. It had this inscription: _"I am Osymandus, King of Kings. If any one is desirous to know how great I am and where I lie, let him surpass any of my works."_ With more propriety might he have said, _let him search out my works_; for we are left to conjecture the very site of his tomb. It would be easy to extend this narrative, but perhaps what struck me as interesting would be unworthy a place in your Literary Messenger. THE EPITAPH. TRANSLATION. H. S. E. HERE LIES Vir honorabilis Robertus Carter, Robert Carter, Esquire; an Armiger, qui genus honestum honorable man, who exalted his high dotibus eximiis, moribus birth by noble endowments and pure antiquis illustravit. Collegium morals. He sustained the College of Gulielmi et Mariæ temporibus William and Mary in the most trying difficilimis propugnavit. times. Gubernator, He was Governor, Senatus Rogator et Quæstor, sub Speaker of the House and Treasurer, serenissimis Principibus under the most serene Princes Gulielmo, Anna, Georgio 1 mo. et William, Anne, George the 1st and 2 do. 2d. A publicis consiliis concilii Elected Speaker by the Public per sexennium præses, plus annum Assembly for six years, and Coloniæ Præfectus cum regiam Governor for more than a year, he dignitatem tam publicum equally upheld the regal dignity libertatem æquali jure asseruit. and public freedom. Opibus amplissimis bene partis Possessed of ample wealth, instructus, ædem hanc sacram In honorably acquired, he built and Deum pietatis grande monumentum, endowed at his own expense this propriis sumptibus extruxit. sacred edifice, a lasting monument of his piety to God. Locupletavit. In omnes quos humaniter incepit, Entertaining his friends with nec prodigus, nec parcus hospes. kindness, he was neither a prodigal Liberalilatem insignem testantur not a thrifty host. debita munifice remissa. Primo Judithum, Johannis His first wife was Judith, daughter Armistead Armigeri filiam, of John Armistead, Esquire; his deinde Betty, generosa second Betty, a descendant of the Landonorum stirpe oriundam sibi noble family of the Landons, by connubio junctas habuit. E whom he had many children-- quibus prolem numerosam suscepit. On whose education he expended a In qua erudienda pecuniæ vim considerable portion of his maximam insumpsit property. Tandem honorum et dierum satur At length, full of honors and cum omnia vitæ munera egregiæ years, having discharged all the præstitisset obiit Pri. Non. duties of an exemplary life, he Aug. An. Dom. 1732 Aet. 69. departed from this world on the 4th day of August, 1732, in the 69th year of his age. Miseri solamen, viduæ The wretched, the widowed and the præsidium, orbi patrem, ademptum orphans, bereaved of their comfort, lugent. protector and father, alike lament his loss. STORY FROM VOLTAIRE. We hope to have the pleasure of delighting our readers frequently with the chaste and classic pen of our correspondent M. By a curious coincidence, about the time he was translating the subjoined story from Voltaire, a correspondent of the Richmond Compiler furnished the Editor of that paper with another version, which was published. Without disparagement to the latter however, the reader of taste will find no difficulty in awarding the preference to the one which we insert in our columns. For the Southern Literary Messenger. Below, is a neat and sportive little story of Voltaire's, never before translated into English, that I know of; though containing sufficient point and good sense to make it well worthy of that honor. No one who has ever sorrowed, can fail to acknowledge the justice of {11} styling TIME the "Great Consoler." The balm he brings, has never failed sooner or later to heal any grief, which did not absolutely _derange_ the mind of its victim. By one part of the tale, the reader will be reminded of the philosopher in Rasselas, who, the morning after he had eloquently and conclusively demonstrated the folly of grieving for any of the ills of life, was found weeping inconsolably, for the loss of his only daughter. Whether Dr. Johnson, or the French wit, first touched off this trait of human weakness, is not material: it may be set down as rather a coincidence than a plagiarism. So much of the region of thought is _common ground_, over which every active mind continually gambols, that it would be wonderful if different feet did not sometimes tread in identical foot prints. M. From the French of Voltaire. THE CONSOLED. The great philosopher, Citophilus, said one day to a justly disconsolate lady--"Madam, an English Queen, a daughter of the great Henry IV. was no less unhappy than you are. She was driven from her kingdom: she narrowly escaped death in a storm at sea: she beheld her royal husband perish on the scaffold." "I am sorry for her;" said the lady--and fell a weeping at her own misfortunes. "But," said Citophilus, "remember Mary Stuart. She was very becomingly in love with a gallant musician, with a fine _tenor_ voice. Her husband slew the musician before her face: and then her good friend and relation, Elizabeth, who called herself the Virgin Queen, had her beheaded on a scaffold hung with black, after an imprisonment of eighteen years." "That was very cruel," replied the lady--and she plunged again into sorrow. "You have perhaps heard," said her comforter, "of the fair Jane of Naples, who was taken prisoner and strangled?" "I have a confused recollection of her," said the afflicted one. "I must tell you," added the other, "the fate of a Queen, who, within my own time, was dethroned by night, and died in a desert island." "I know all that story," answered the lady. "Well then, I will inform you of what befel a great princess, whom I taught philosophy. She had a lover, as all great and handsome princesses have. Her father once entering her chamber, surprised the lover, whose features were all on fire, and whose eye sparkled like a diamond: she, too, had a most lively complexion. The young gentleman's look so displeased the father, that he administered to him the most enormous box on the ear, ever given in that country. The lover seized a pair of tongs, and broke the old gentleman's head; which was cured with difficulty, and still carries the scar. The nymph, in despair, sprung through the window; and dislocated her foot in such a way, that she to this day limps perceptibly, though her mien is otherwise admirable. The lover was condemned to die, for having broken the head of a puissant monarch. You may judge the condition of the princess, when her lover was led forth to be hanged. I saw her, during her long imprisonment: she could speak of nothing but her afflictions." "Then why would not you have me brood over mine?" said the lady. "Because," said the philosopher, "you _ought not_ to brood over them; and because, so many great ladies having been so miserable, it ill becomes _you_ to despair. Think of Hecuba--of Niobe." "Ah!" said the lady, "if I had lived in their time, or in that of all your fine princesses, and you, to comfort them, had told them my misfortunes, do you think they would have listened to you?" The next day, the philosopher lost his only son; and was on the point of dying with grief. The lady had a list prepared, of all the kings who had lost their children, and carried it to the philosopher: he read it, found it correct, and----wept on, as much as ever. Three months after, they met again; and were surprised to find each other cheerful and gay. They caused a handsome statue to be reared to TIME, with this inscription: "TO THE GREAT CONSOLER." ORIGINAL POETRY. For the Southern Literary Messenger. I have been permitted to copy the original verses which I send you, from a young lady's album. They were written by a gentleman of literary merit, whose modesty will probably be somewhat startled at seeing himself in print. I could not resist the opportunity however, of adorning the columns of your first number with so fine a specimen of native genius. According to my poor taste, and humble judgment in such matters, these lines are beautiful. They are tinged with the deep misanthropy of Byron, and yet have all the flowing smoothness and vivacity of Moore. Shall it be said after reading such poetry, that the muses are altogether neglected in the Ancient Dominion--that there is no genuine ore in our intellectual mines which with a little labor may be refined into pure gold? Shall it be longer contended that we are altogether a nation of talkers, and that politics, summer barbecues and horse-racing are our all engrossing and exclusive recreations. In truth, is not this the very land of poetry! Our colonial and revolutionary history is itself fruitful in the materials of song; and even our noble rivers--our lofty mountains--our vast and impenetrable forests--and our warm and prolific sun, are so many sublime sources of inspiration. With respect to the belle passion,--_that_ has in all ages, climates and countries, constituted one of the strongest incitements to poetical genius. The imagination, warmed by impressions of feminine beauty and innocence, at once takes wing, and wanders through regions of thought and melancholy--investing the object of its idolatry with attributes and perfections which more properly belong to a purer state of being. Whether the philosophy of the subjoined stanzas is equal to their harmony, I leave to your readers to decide. The voluntary sacrifice {12} of the heart at the shrine of prudence is doubtless heroic; but there are few lovers, and especially of the poetic temperament, who are willing to submit to "brokenness of heart" rather than encounter the hazard of sharing with a beloved object the "cup of sorrow." Whether, moreover, the ingenious author was actually breathing in eloquent earnestness his own "private griefs," or amusing himself only by the creations of fancy,--I am not prepared to determine. One thing I do know, however--that the charming nymph in whose album these lines were written, though not "too dear to love," possesses a heart both "warm and soft," and is in every respect worthy of all the admiration which the most romantic lover could bestow. H. _Lines written in a Young Lady's Album._ _Air_--"The Bride." I'd offer thee this heart
kicking the wagon to pieces. The transport officer, C. R. B. Henderson, drew his revolver and shot the animal. The Uhlans must have had reinforcements for they were getting bolder. The bullets were cutting up little spurts of dust and turf all about us. They were singing overhead like a gale in the ropes and spars of a transport at sea. The Germans were firing at the ammunition wagon in the hope of blowing it up. I was just about to run for cover again when I saw Lieut. Henderson--he who had shot the transport horse--walk calmly up (leading his own animal) and cut the dead one from the traces. I didn't care about being killed, but I couldn't leave this officer, who was standing there as though he were on parade, except that his hands were working ten times as fast as they ever did at drill. Together we got the dead animal free and harnessed the lieutenant's horse to the wagon. We used one of the lieutenant's spiral puttees to mend the cut and broken harness. The driver of the ammunition wagon was holding the head of the other horse, shaking his fist at the Germans, and swearing at them with a heavy Scotch burr. Men were running past us like rabbits. Some of them were tumbling like rabbits, too, when a steel-nosed bullet found its mark. I saw others stoop, just long enough to get an arm under the shoulders of a comrade and then drag him along. A few lay still and a single look into their faces showed that it would be useless to carry them. The running men dropped behind stones, hillocks, trees--anything that was likely to afford cover and stop bullets--and their rifles snapped angrily at the Germans whose fire was getting heavier, but who still did not dare an open attack. At last the harness was ready. The ammunition driver leaped to his seat and the wagon went careening toward the ravine, swaying crazily, with a storm of shots tearing up the turf around its wheels. We needed that wagon badly. In a moment it would be over the crest of the rise and we would be sure of that much ammunition to fight with. "Get on to the wagon, sir," I shouted to the officer, as it dashed forward; but he did not heed me. "In a second we shall be where we can fight them off," was all he said. A Uhlan's horse, with empty saddle, galloped up to us. I seized the dangling reins. "Mount him, sir," I shouted. He took the reins from my hand and attempted to leap into the saddle. The horse was cut and bleeding, and unmanageable from terror. He backed toward the ammunition wagon, which had not yet made the ridge, dragging the officer with him. I followed. Just as we thus neared the wagon, a shell exploded close at hand. The wagon humped up in the middle as if it had been made of whalebone. It rocked from side to side, almost upsetting. Then it settled back upon its wrecked wheels. A high explosive shell had struck directly under it. The two horses fell, dead from shrapnel or shock, and the driver toppled from his seat, dead, between them, a red smear across his face. The small-arms ammunition in the wagon had not been exploded. The doors of the wagon were thrown open by the concussion of the shell, causing the bandoliers of cartridges to scatter. The officer motioned to me to help distribute the ammunition to our men as they ran past; upon finishing this task we joined the last of our party and were very soon over the crest. We had only a few machine guns, but we got them in place. The Uhlans were charging across the field. A shrill whistle blew.----The machine guns began to rattle. Down went horses and riders, plunging about where some of our own men lay. Our rifle fire, too, was getting stronger, better controlled, more co-ordinated. We were sheltered; the enemy was in the open. His artillery was useless, for we were coming to grips. Line after line, they broke into the field, lances set. The horses were stretching out low over the turf--over the turf where a moment later they were to kick out the last of their breath, pinning under them many a rider to whom we were paying the debt of the Munster Fusiliers. A bugle sounded.----Those that were left of the Uhlans galloped off. The little machine guns had done their work. Our attention was then attracted to a heavy fire, directed from some unknown quarter upon a near-by field in which was confined a large herd of light brown cattle, their colour identical with that of our khaki uniforms. The animals were milling about madly; a dozen of them already were down and others were falling each moment. Here was one of the humours of war. We laughed, believing that the Germans were firing upon the dying beasts, mistaking them for us--"The Ladies from Hell," as they called us. The Scots Greys, which regiment had come up at this critical moment to occupy the high ground on our right flank about six hundred yards away, through the fierceness of their enfilading fire, managed to keep the enemy at a standstill and so allowed the Black Watch to retreat to safety. We owed our lives to kind fate in bringing the Scots Greys to our timely aid, and to them all honour! But for them we should have met the fate of the Munster Fusiliers. Crawling on their bellies, some of our men went out and brought in those of the Black Watch who were lying wounded. The others we left, for their own men would be there presently. For us, it was retreat again. After traversing ditches, ravines and barbed-wire fences, we finally assembled on the road. The artillery was beginning to pound once more. We had to trudge on, watching for the next attack, planting one bleeding foot before another, with nobody knew how many days of forced marching before us--marching (so we thought) to let the Russians get to Berlin. I don't think anything else would have induced us to resume our retreat after the brush with the Uhlans. At evening we found ourselves at the village of Oise about six miles from the abovementioned scene. As we arrived at the bridge over the River Oise, the engineers who were on the other side, and who had fused the bridge, shouted to us to keep back, but our colonel gave us the order to double. We had cleared the bridge by about only two hundred yards, when it blew up into atoms! After trudging, mostly uphill, in a downpour of rain, we reached a place called Guise at 2 A.M. Here we managed to get some food. I was glad enough to throw my waterproof sheet over me and fall asleep. On being awakened, I felt as though I had slept for weeks, but found it had only been for one hour and twenty minutes. We then received some "gunfire" and our _first_ issue of rum. We resumed the march. On arriving at La Grange, the Camerons, or what was left of them, joined us, taking the place of the annihilated Fusiliers in our brigade. We were so tired that night that I could have slept on a bed of nails, points up, but we had not been in our billets very long when we were ordered out, as the outpost had reported the approach of Uhlans in considerable numbers. We were half asleep as we ran down into the street to our allotted posts. One of the first persons we encountered in the town was a Frenchman, raving mad. We asked him what was the matter, but he could not reply. He jibbered like an ape; his twitching lips slavered and foamed. Some of his neighbours took him in hand and led him away. One of them told us his story: "The Prussians came in here yesterday. There was no one to resist them. They posted sentries. Then those who were not on duty broke into cellars. Casks of wine were rolled up into the streets, and, where squads gathered together, there were piles of bottles. The soldiers did not stop to pull the corks. They knocked off the necks of the bottles and filled their aluminum cups with red wine and white, mixing one type with another, and swilling it in as fast as they could drink. Dozens of them fell in the gutters, drunk. Others reeled through the village, abusing and insulting men and women alike. If a man resisted, he was shot. This poor fellow, whom you have seen, was in his door yard with his wife. A Prussian seized her about the waist. She struggled. He crushed her to him with his brutish arm. His companions, all drunk, laughed and jeered. The woman's clothes were ripped from her shoulders in her struggle. Meanwhile others bound the husband to one of his own fruit trees, so that he could not escape the horror of it. One--more drunken, more bestial than the others--slashed off the woman's breasts and threw them to a dog. The woman died." This of itself was enough to have made us rage against the enemy whom hitherto we had regarded as an honourable foe, but it was not all. I, with other members of my own company, came upon a nail driven into the wall of a barn from which hung, by the mouth, the lifeless form of a baby. The child was dead when we found it, but it had died hanging from the rusty nail. I know it had, because I saw upon the wall the marks of finger-nails where the baby had clawed and scratched. And besides, a dead body would not have bled. An officer ordered the removal of the child's body. I do not tell these things for the sake of the horror of them. I would rather not tell them. I have spent months trying to forget them. Now that I have recalled them, I wake in the night so horrified that I cannot move. But to relate them may serve one useful purpose. There are those in America, as there were in England, who believed that war to repel invasion was justified, but who were not enthusiastic for war abroad. America entered the war after her patience was absolutely exhausted, and Americans should be devoutly thankful that they can fight abroad and not have to endure the presence of a single Prussian soldier on American soil. What we saw and learned in Guise galvanized our weary bodies to new efforts against the vandals whom we were fighting. With clenched teeth and curses we turned to fight again. The Uhlans got into the outskirts of the town and cut down a number of our men, but, inch by inch, as they drove toward the centre of the village, our resistance became stiffer and stiffer. It was like a nightmare. The charging horses, the gruff shouts of the enemy, the groans of the men who fell beside me, were like their counterparts in a dream. My finger pressed the trigger of the rifle feverishly. Even when I saw the men I fired at topple from their saddles and sprawl on the cobblestones, I had only a dull sense that I had scored a hit. Just as we were throwing the enemy back in some confusion, a party of British worked round a back street and fired on them from the rear. A second later a machine gun began strewing the ground with horses and men. Squads of them threw up their hands and cried: "_Kamerad! Kamerad!_"--which was not a new cry on the part of the Prussians. A young fellow by my side stopped firing for a moment, but the rest of us knew better. The Camerons had lost a score of men the day before because they had taken the Germans at their word, and, when they went to make them prisoners, a whole company of Prussians had risen from behind the crest to a hill and shot the Camerons down. So bullets from our rifles answered the cries of "_Kamerad!_" A few of the enemy escaped down side streets, and a number of them remained lying where they had been shot. While we were on our way back to quarters, a Frenchman came up out of his basement and motioned us to follow him. We went into the cellar and found half a dozen Prussians lying there dead drunk. We made them prisoners and sent them to headquarters. CHAPTER THREE I had about got settled in the stable where I was billeted, when orders came to "stand to." No more sleep that night. We took the road and left La Grange behind us just as the sun was pinking the sky. It was Sunday, and, although we knew war was no respecter of the Sabbath, we had not been in the field long enough to get the idea quite out of our heads that Sunday, somehow, in the nature of things, was a little easier than other days. When we halted in a ravine at about ten o'clock in the morning, after marching four hours, we thought after all that it was going to be an easier day. I was on outpost duty on a side road a little way from the main thoroughfare we had been following. Suddenly an infernal racket broke out over to our left. First there came a few scattered cracks of rifle fire. Then I could hear clip firing and the rattle of machine guns. I learned later that the Scots Greys and the 12th Lancers had come across about seven thousand Germans resting in a wide gully. The Greys and the Lancers, catching them unawares by cutting down their sentries who had no opportunity even to give the alarm--charged through them, then back again. Three times they repeated their performance, while some of our brigade got on to the flanks and poured in such a rapid fire that the Prussians had no opportunity to re-form to meet each repetition of the attack. The details do not matter, but they made up for the annihilation of the Munster Fusiliers. In the newspaper accounts of the campaign this incident was described as the "Great St. Quentin Charge," in which, it was asserted, the Black Watch (foot soldiers) participated, holding onto the stirrups of the Scots Greys. This bit of colouring was an inaccuracy. We aided the Greys and the Lancers with rifle and machine-gun fire only. When the firing ceased and the Greys and the Lancers came cantering past, we learned from them the details of the Battle of "St. Quentin." At nightfall our section was still guarding the road at a point from which a cart road branched off at right angles to the main thoroughfare. It was here that the outpost received instructions in a few French phrases, the main one being "_Votre passe, s'il vous plait_." ("Your pass, please.") This was because the road was open to refugees who were fleeing from the Boches, and who had to show passes before being allowed to go on. The absence of the pass meant that the person would be sent to headquarters for examination. It was quite natural that some of us Scots should find it difficult to make ourselves familiar with these phrases. However, we were all willing to try. One strapping Highlander, weary and footsore but daunted by nothing, practised the phrases dutifully, though the French words were almost lost in the encounter with his native Scotch. We chuckled, but he merely glowered at us indignantly, and then went to take his place on sentry go. Two Frenchmen came along in a wagon. The Highlander blocked their way and sternly uttered what he conceived to be the phrase he had been told to use. The Frenchmen sat mystified. There was a roar of laughter when the Highlander, losing patience, shouted: "Pass us if ye daur!" Then his sergeant came to the rescue. These two Frenchmen in the wagon were the last refugees to pass. Soon afterward, from my station farther down the road, I heard a clatter of hoofs and caught a glimpse of Uhlans' helmets. I had barely time to pass the word to the man on the next post and to jump behind a log before they came into view. They were riding, full gallop into our lines, apparently having abandoned ordinary scouting precautions in their eagerness to strike where and when they might against our worn and lacerated forces. We, now, had fought so long that we fought mechanically. Over my protecting log, I aimed at the leading horseman as precisely and carefully as if I had been at rifle practice. When I pulled the trigger he tumbled into the road, rolled over awkwardly, and lay still. I did not feel as if I had killed a man. I felt only a mild sense of satisfaction with the accuracy of my aim. Bitter hate for the Huns had sprung in the heart of every one of us after what we had that day seen of their savagery. I had got my Uhlan at, perhaps, seventy yards. His fall checked the squad's advance for a moment only. The man nearest grasped at the bridle of the dead man's horse but missed it. On they all came, galloping recklessly and yelling, the riderless horse leading by a half dozen lengths. As they rode, they fired in my direction, but their bullets went wide. I felt real compunction as I aimed at the head of the leading horse--the one whose rider I had shot down with only a sense of satisfaction. I could hear our men crashing through the bushes by the road as they came to my support. I fired. My bullet must have struck the riderless horse in the brain, for he fell instantly, sprawled out in the path of the galloping Huns behind. The horses of the leaders stumbled over the fallen animal. A rattle of shots from our men completed the confusion of the Uhlans. They turned their horses and galloped away--some back along the road, others across the fields. Several fell under our fire; how many we had no time to ascertain. After that little affair we organized our position for a somewhat better defence. Leaving a few scouts, far advanced, we stationed our men in easy touch with each other and then cut down a number of trees and telegraph poles and barricaded the road with them. There were sixteen of us in the post near this barricade, concealed from view and able to communicate with each other in whispers. The hours dragged on to midnight and past. We were weary to the bone--half dead for want of sleep--but we dared not relax our vigilance for an instant. The surrounding country was dense with woods. The moon was almost new, so consequently the poles were quite invisible a few yards away. At about one o'clock in the morning I heard something crackling through the brush on the side road. My bayonet was fixed and I was ready to fire. The crackling came nearer. I crept stealthily forward to meet whatever it was. Presently a man stepped into the road. "Halt!" I cried. He halted at once, and gave the word "Friend." It was one of our sentries with a message that Uhlans were coming along the road. Three men were farther down the road; they had hidden so that the Uhlans would pass them, the sentry said. A section of us concealed ourselves--and waited. Presently the Uhlans came into sight, proceeding cautiously. Half of us were instructed to withhold fire until the Prussians should reach the barricade. The remainder began to fire. The horsemen scattered to each side of the road and returned the fire, but as we were not discernible, the shots went wild. I judged that they numbered about fifty. We dropped a few of them. They were becoming enraged--their fire ineffective. They mounted; and the leader spurred his horse, and, followed by the others, galloped in our direction. Their carbines spat red flashes into the night. Their bullets were coming closer now, because they could determine where we were lying in the ditches at the side of the road from the flashes of our rifles. "Will they see the trees across the roadway?" was the thought that darted through my mind. If they should, it would probably be all up with us. As they came very close to the barricade, they did notice it. They made a bold leap across, but having underestimated the number of logs there, they found themselves in great confusion. Some of them were pinned under their fallen horses. At this point, we opened fire, which completed their discomfiture. Above the sound of our rifle firing we could hear the now-familiar cry of "_Kamerad!_" "_Kamerad!_" It only served to infuriate us and made us shoot all the faster. This might well arouse against us the criticism of those who never witnessed atrocities committed by the Huns, but you must remember that our blood had not come down to normal from the effects of the sights we ourselves had come across. At last, we leaped out to make prisoners of the trapped Uhlans. Those who could, bolted back in the direction they came from, but it was a sure thing that twelve of them were missing when the roll was called. One might consider that a night's work, but it wasn't. It was now my turn for sentry go on the main road, which was still open for vehicles of our staff. This was a post where it was thought that, to use an American phrase, there would be "nothing doing"; yet it was here that I came face to face with one of the war's finest examples of Teutonic over-assurance--boldness that would have been splendid had it not been stupid. After I had been at my new post an hour, it then being near three o'clock in the morning, a motor car came swiftly toward me. I had been warned that I might expect staff officers to pass, and this, I thought, was undoubtedly some of them--otherwise the car would have advanced slowly. I stepped into the road and awaited its approach. As it neared me I saw that the two officers it contained wore the uniforms of the British staff. I could see the red tabs on their collars. There were two telegraph poles across the road near my post. Remembering this, I showed myself and called for the chauffeur to halt. He checked the car's speed but brought it ahead slowly. I shouted for the countersign. I was waiting for the occupants of the car to give it, intending to explain to them that they would have to stop until I called some one to help me remove the telegraph poles, when there was a sudden grinding of gears and the car shot ahead, full speed. I yelled a warning about the poles but the words left my lips at about the moment when the car bounced over them. Until that time I had no suspicion that the occupants of the car were not what they seemed. Even then, the manner in which they "rushed" my post seemed to me only due to some inexplicable misunderstanding. But I had marched, and fought, and gone sleepless and hungry until I was little more than a mechanical soldier. I was able to realize only that somebody, for some reason, had ignored my challenge and rushed a sentry post. I swung my rifle in the direction of the car, aimed accurately (in an automatic way), and pulled the trigger. The noise of an exploding tire followed the crack of my weapon. The car skidded, twisted for a moment, and then went on--faster than ever. My shot aroused our outpost. The alarm was given to the first of the connecting sentries and passed along quickly until it reached our company headquarters, on the roadside opposite to a château in which Brigade Staff headquarters had been established. Men half awake, tumbled into the roadway preparing to fire on something or somebody--they didn't know what. It was useless for the car to attempt to rush the crowd. Again the chauffeur checked it, this time bringing it to a full stop. One of the occupants (who, it will be remembered, were in staff uniform) demanded sharply of the sentry in front of the château: "What is the meaning of this? Are there nothing but blockheads about here? We have been fired on while looking for Brigade headquarters. Somebody should be court-martialled for this." The sentry saluted them and admitted them to the grounds of the château. Their car had disappeared within the gates when I came running down the road and informed my company commander what had happened. He instantly ordered our men to surround the château and rushed in himself, following the car up the avenue leading through the grounds. The "staff officers" had abandoned their car in the shadow of a clump of trees and were seeking to escape over the garden wall when our men captured them. One of them, speaking English without a trace of accent, still tried to "bluff" our men who seized him, and his assumed indignation was so convincing that, but for the direct orders from the company commander, the men might have released him, believing him really an officer of our forces. Each of the two wore the uniform of a staff major with all the proper badges and insignia. It was found that they were German spies with rough maps of the disposition of our retreating forces and other valuable information in their possession. I was informed, later, that they were shot. Before dawn, we got orders to retire again. It was always retire--retire. We were ready to fight ten times our number if only we could stop retiring. Shortly after leaving this position we saw an airplane overhead. A few minutes later shrapnel began bursting in our direction. We scattered to each side of the highway, keeping under cover as best we could. We marched all day--God knows how far--and finally, between one and two the following morning, reached a place which we believed to be Pinon. CHAPTER FOUR As we neared Pinon, the sound of artillery fire could be heard, and the inhabitants were all leaving the town in any way that they could. Here I saw further effects of Prussian atrocities. At this spot, a French woman, supporting her mutilated husband as best she could, passed us in a buggy. The sight was awful! His face and body were almost entirely covered with gashes from the Prussians' bayonets. His wife's face was as white as death except where three cruel cuts had laid it open. Neither of this pitiful pair was less than sixty years old. Fine "enemies" for soldiers' weapons! Beyond this last village we lay in the open for a few hours' rest. We were so utterly exhausted that officers and men alike threw themselves upon the ground and instantly were asleep. My last waking recollection was of the sight of an officer of the guard striding wearily to and fro. He was afraid even to sit for fear sleep might conquer him. And my next recollection--seemingly coming right on the heels of the one I have mentioned--was of being shaken by the shoulders and having the warning shouted into my ear that we had got orders to force-march instantly. "They say some of the blighters have got round us by the flank," said the man who shook me. "Make haste!" We had rested less than three hours. Off we went on another "retirement." This time under the drive of urgent necessity for speed. We must have marched at an extraordinary rate, because it was not yet noon when we arrived at the outskirts of Soissons. From the high ground on our right flank, we could see cavalry and artillery in great numbers, but whether ours or the enemy's, none of us knew--not even the officers. As we arrived in the town we were greeted with artillery fire; then we knew who it was that awaited us. We got into a lumber yard and returned the fire, but I don't think either side did much damage. Their bullets sang through the lumber gallery. The melody was one that had become familiar to us. Retreating through Soissons, we kept up a stiff fight, arriving intact at the farther end of the town. Here we came upon fresh and terrible evidence of the ruthlessness and wanton cruelty of the foe which we had first confronted but a few days before, then believing that the traditions of honourable warfare still existed. We came across scores of refugees--old men and women--who had been beaten and driven from their homes without cause. We had passed the dead bodies of many townspeople--killed, seemingly, by artillery fire, yet, in some cases, exhibiting suspicious wounds, as if bayonets or lances had been used. It was not, however, until we were marching through the throng of refugees, outside the town, that indisputable and utterly shocking proofs of the inhumanity of the Huns came to our eyes. In perambulators we saw wailing children with mangled or missing hands. I know that it has been hotly disputed that such dastardly crimes as these were committed by the Germans. I know also that the disputants who contend against the truth of these reports never marched with us the weary and awful miles amid the fleeing and miserable people of Soissons. These mutilated children I, myself, and my comrades saw. Two at least, I recollect with bloody stumps where baby hands had been, and one whose foot had been severed at the ankle. _I saw these things._ I saw them; and I live to say that others with me saw them--brawny Highlanders whose tears of pity flowed with those of the mothers who wept for heart-break and with those of the babies who wept from the pain of the wounds which had maimed them. Ay, there were witnesses enough; and witnesses remain, though many of the Black Watch who that day saw and cursed the cowardly brutality of the Huns were to lie, but too soon, with their voices hushed for ever, so that they may not speak of it. But we who still live may tell of it--and dare a challenge of the truth of what we say! And those who saw, and died--paying the toll of that bloody passing from the Mons to the Marne--have told it, no doubt, ere this--before that Court whose judgment can impose the eternal punishment that the soulless crimes demand. There were thousands in the unhappy throng of refugees. Some few rode upon hay carts, surrounded by such of their belongings as they had been able hastily to gather. Others pushed handcarts containing their goods and household articles. Most of them however, went afoot, trudging wearily along and carrying what they might. There, in that sickening scene, it was as it is everywhere. The grotesque and the humorous mixed incongruously with the pathetic. For instance: Alongside one perambulator with a wounded child in it rolled another one loaded with huge rings of bread, on top of which perched a parrot, screaming at every one who passed. One old lady was trudging along carrying a baby which could not have been more than two and a half years old, though the weight of his chubby frame was bending her almost double. I could not speak her language, but I made her understand that I would carry the child a mile or two and leave him by the side of the road. The laughter and baby antics of the child brought a ray of sunshine to our section, and especially to fathers who had left tots behind them in Scotland. About an hour later I came to a group by the roadside, who recognized the baby, and I left him with them, making them understand that the old lady would be along later. One of the last things I remember in leaving Soissons was an old man who was carrying his furniture and household goods to what looked like a modern dug-out in an embankment and covering it with earth so that it would not be discovered. The boys made a lot of fun of him, but the laugh was not on their lips very long. We had just reached the top of a hill on the farther side of the city, overlooking the railroad yards and repair shops, when we came into direct view of the German artillery observers, and shrapnel began to storm down among us. It was like the sudden burst of a thunder cloud. There wasn't a moment's warning before the smoke puffs began appearing overhead and the ugly steel splinters and slugs whizzed over our heads. The regiment deployed in a corn field at one side of the road and scattered, moving some distance from the highway. The enemy continued to sprinkle the corn with shrapnel but we lay flat on the ground until the firing ceased. The company's cooks meanwhile, at some little distance ahead of us, had prepared "gunfire," and the various companies lined up in file to receive their well-earned and much-desired quota of it. As the cooks had to keep ahead of the regiment, there was no time lost in disposing of the tea, and many of the men had to drink it on the run. A little farther on we halted for a few hours' sleep, and at ten minutes to three we found ourselves again on the move. We marched all that day through a large and dense forest. Now and again we were surprised by occasional artillery shots at the more open sections, but the trees helped a great deal in protecting us from the enemy's airplanes, and proved a hindrance to their tactics. But with the cavalry it was a different matter. Uhlans harassed us every hour of the day. We had only about two machine guns to a battalion, and they were worked so steadily and so hard that they repeatedly jammed. Once we were almost cut off. A party of Uhlans came clattering down on our heels driving the rear guard in on the support, and for a few moments there was what approached a modern barrage fire of artillery on the road in our front. Luckily for us, the artillery fire slackened for some reason and we got ahead before the Uhlans could envelop us. Later in the day I was serving in the rear guard. Suddenly we heard the roaring of a motor. We took cover at the sides of the road. Our "point"--was in the rear, and, if there was anything wrong, we knew they would inform us. The roaring of the motor grew louder. We were so tired that our nerves jangled. I had never felt so jumpy. There it came around the bend with a Red Cross flag flying from it, but it was not one of our ambulances. It had great, heavy, double wheels and there were Red Crosses painted on its sides in addition to the flag flying from the front. Our impression was that it had gone off its course. The chauffeur had released the muffler cut-out and the engine was running very quietly now. A man sitting beside the driver and leaning far out over the side was yelling in broken English that they were lost, and he gesticulated toward the body of the car in such a way as to make us think that he had badly wounded men with him. We began scrambling back onto the road. Our war was not against the wounded and suffering, so we would let them pass. Suddenly the ambulance stopped; the sides of it quickly rose; machine guns showed their ugly muzzles. "Br-r-r-r-r t-t-t," they began to sputter. I leaped backward and fell headlong into the ditch. Everybody was jumping for cover. The bullets lashed the road and ricocheted far upon it. Scarcely a man of us was hit, but we were in wild confusion. I cannot describe the scene. No one seemed to think of putting his rifle to his shoulder. The horror of it--the passionate anger against such vile trickery--drove us into a rage; but--for the moment--it was an impotent rage. We seemed to be at their mercy. Then the platoon commander's voice rose above the rat-a-tat of the machine guns: "Steady, men! Fire at will, but pick your men carefully." We had heard him speak in the same tone on parade. It brought us to our senses. The edge of the ditch on each side of the road fairly flamed with the sputter of rifle fire. The "ambulance" was riddled. A Prussian officer toppled into the middle of the road. Half a dozen men sprang from the ditch and rushed at him with bayonets. They killed him like a rat. There was no compunction about it. There was now heard the thrumming of more motors approaching. Round the turn in the road they came. This time it was transports--laden with German troops. There was no
too bad that there was no painter at hand to transfer to canvas so lovely a picture as this girl in her white frock made, sitting by the firelight in this mellow old room, playing with a white imp of a kitten. It would have made an ideal study in white and scarlet. How comfortable it all was; the book-lined walls, the repose and dignity of this beautiful home, with its corps of well-trained servants waiting to minister to one's lightest wants. The secure and sheltered feeling that it gave appealed strongly to the girl, who but a little while ago had enjoyed similar surroundings in her father's house. And then, there had been that awful day when her father's wealth had vanished into air like a burst bubble, and he had come home with a white drawn face and gone to bed, never again to rise from it. Anna did not mind the privations that followed on her own account, but they were pitifully hard on her invalid mother, who had been used to every comfort all her life. After they had left New York, they had taken a little cottage in Waltham, Mass., and it was here that Mrs. Standish Tremont had come to call on her relatives in their grief and do what she could toward lightening their burdens. Anna was worn out with the constant care of her mother, and would only consent to go away for a rest, because the doctor told her that her health was surely breaking under the strain, and that if she did not go, there would be two invalids instead of one. It was at Mrs. Tremont's that she had met Lennox Sanderson, and from the first, both seemed to be under the influence of some subtle spell that drew them together blindly, and without the consent of their wills. Mrs. Tremont, who viewed the growing attraction of these two young people with well-concealed alarm, watched every opportunity to prevent their enjoying each other's society. It irritated her that one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Harvard should take such a fancy to her penniless young relative, instead of to Grace Tremont, whom she had selected for his wife. There were few things that Mrs. Tremont enjoyed so much as arranging romances in everyday life. "Pardon me, Miss Moore," said the butler, standing at her elbow, "but there has been a telephone message from Mrs. Tremont, saying that she and Mrs. Endicott have been detained, and will you be kind enough to explain this to Mr. Sanderson." Anna never knew what the message cost Mrs. Tremont. A moment later, Sanderson's card was sent up; Anna rose to meet him with swiftly beating heart. "What perfect luck," he said. "How do I happen to find you alone? Usually you have a regiment of people about you." "Cousin Frances has just telephoned that she has been detained, and I suppose I am to entertain you till her return." "I shall be sufficiently entertained if I may have the pleasure of looking at you." "Till dinner time? You could never stand it." She laughed. "It would be a pleasure till eternity." "At any rate," said Anna, "I am not going to put you to the test. If you will be good enough to ring for tea, I will give you a cup." The butler brought in the tea. Anna lighted the spirit lamp with pretty deftness, and proceeded to make tea. "I could not have taken this, even from your hands last week, Anna--pardon me, Miss Moore." "And why not? Had you been taking pledges not to drink tea?" "It seems to me as if I've been living on rare beef and whole wheat bread ever since I can remember----" "Oh, yes, I forgot about your being in training for the game, but you did so magnificently, you ought not to mind it. Why, you made Harvard win the game. We were all so proud of you." "All! I don't care about 'all.' Were you proud of me?" "Of course I was," she answered with the loveliest blush. "Then it is amply repaid." "Let me give you another cup of tea." "No, thanks, I don't care about any more, but if you will let me talk to you about something-- See here, Anna. Yes, I mean Anna. What nonsense for us to attempt to keep up the Miss Moore and Mr. Sanderson business. I used to scoff at love at first sight and say it was all the idle fancy of the poets. Then I met you and remained to pray. You've turned my world topsy-turvy. I can't think without you, and yet it would be folly to tell this to my Governor, and ask his consent to our marriage. He wants me to finish college, take the usual trip around the world and then go into the firm. Besides, he wants me to eventually marry a cousin of mine--a girl with a lot of money and with about as much heart as would fit on the end of a pin." She had followed this speech with almost painful attention. She bit her lips till they were but a compressed line of coral. At last she found words to say: "We must not talk of these things, Mr. Sanderson. I have to go back and care for my mother. She is an invalid and needs all my attention. Bedsides, we are poor; desperately poor. I am here in your world, only through the kindness of my cousin, Mrs. Tremont." "It was your world till a year ago, Anna. I know all about your father's failure, and how nobly you have done your part since then, and it kills me to think of you, who ought to have everything, spending your life--your youth--in that stupid little Waltham, doing the work of a housemaid." "I am very glad to do my part," she answered him bravely, but her eyes were full of unshed tears. "Anna, dearest, listen to me." He crossed over to where she sat and took her hand. "Can't you have a little faith in me and do what I am going to ask you? There is the situation exactly. My father won't consent to our marriage, so there is no use trying to persuade him. And here you are--a little girl who needs some one to take care of you and help you take care of your mother, give her all the things that mean so much to an invalid. Now, all this can be done, darling, if you will only have faith in me. Marry me now secretly, before you go back to Waltham. No one need know. And then the governor can be talked around in time. My allowance will be ample to give you and your mother all you need. Can't you see, darling?" The color faded from her cheeks. She looked at him with eyes as startled as a surprised fawn. "O, Lennox, I would be afraid to do that." "You would not be afraid, Anna, if you loved me." It was so tempting to the weary young soul, who had already begun to sink under the accumulated burdens of the past year, not for herself, but for the sick mother, who complained unceasingly of the changed conditions of their lives. The care and attention would mean so much to her--and yet, what right had she to encourage this man to go against the wishes of his father, to take advantage of his love for her? But she was grateful to him, and there was a wealth of tenderness in the eyes that she turned toward him. "No, Lennox, I appreciate your generosity, but I do not think it would be wise for either of us." "Don't talk to me of generosity. Good God, Anna, can't you realize what this separation means to me? I have no heart to go on with my life away from you. If you are going to throw me over, I shall cut college and go away." She loved him all the better for his impatience. "Anna," he said--the two dark heads were close together, the madness of the impulse was too much for both. Their lips met in a first long kiss. The man was to have his way. The kiss proved a more eloquent argument than all his pleading. "Say you will, Anna." "Yes," she whispered. And then they heard the street door open and close, and the voices of Mrs. Tremont and her daughter, as they made their way to the library. And the two young souls, who hovered on the brink of heaven, were obliged to listen to the latest gossip of fashionable Boston. CHAPTER III. CONTAINING SOME REFLECTIONS AND THE ENTRANCE OF MEPHISTOPHELES. "Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor horrid lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime."--_Byron_. Lennox Sanderson was stretched in his window-seat with a book, of which, however, he knew nothing--not even the title--his mind being occupied by other thoughts than reading at that particular time. Did he dare do it? The audacity of the proceeding was sufficient to make the iron will of even Lennox Sanderson waver. And yet, to lose her! Such a contingency was not to be considered. His mind flew backward and forward like a shuttle, he turned the leaves of his book; he smoked, but no light came from within or without. He glanced about the familiar objects in his sitting-room as one unconsciously does when the mind is on the rack of anxiety, as if to seek council from the mute things that make up so large a part of our daily lives. It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of the appointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity. Heavy red curtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparted a degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere. Russian candlesticks of highly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves. Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark red paper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintings showed to excellent advantage. They were reproductions of Botticelli, Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity. Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes, flintlocks and carbines. A helmet and breastplate filled the space between the two windows. Some dozen or more of pipe racks held the young collegian's famous collection of pipes that told the history of smoking from the introduction during the reign of Elizabeth, down to the present day. In taking a mental inventory of his household goods, Sanderson's eyes fell on the photograph of a woman on the mantel-piece. He frowned. What right had she there, when his mind was full of another? He walked over to the picture and threw it into the fire. It was not the first picture to know a similar fate after occupying that place of honor. The blackened edges of the picture were whirling up the chimney, when Sanderson's attention was arrested by a knock. "Come in," he called, and a young man of about his own age entered. Without being in the least ill-looking, there was something repellent about the new comer. His eyes were shifty and too close together to be trustworthy. Otherwise no fault could be found with his appearance. "Well, Langdon, how are you?" his host asked, but there was no warmth in his greeting. "As well as a poor devil like me ever is," began Langdon obsequiously. He sighed, looked about the comfortable room and finished with: "Lucky dog." Sanderson stood on no ceremony with his guest, who was a thoroughly unscrupulous young man. Once or twice Langdon had helped Sanderson out of scrapes that would have sent him home from college without his degree, had they come to the ears of the faculty. In return for this assistance, Sanderson had lent him large sums of money, which the owner entertained no hopes of recovering. Sanderson tried to balance matters by treating Langdon with scant ceremony when they were alone. "Well, old man," began his host, "I do not flatter myself that I owe this call to any personal charm. You dropped in to ease a little financial embarrassment by the request of a loan--am I not right?" "Right, as usual, Sandy, though I'd hardly call it a loan. You know I was put to a devil of a lot of trouble about that Newton affair, and it cost money to secure a shut mouth." Sanderson frowned. "This is the fifth time I have had the pleasure of settling for that Newton affair, Langdon. It seems to have become a sort of continuous performance." Langdon winced. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Langdon. You owe me two thousand now, not counting that poker debt. We'll call it square if you'll attend to a little matter for me and I'll give you an extra thou. to make it worth your while." "You know I am always delighted to help you, Sandy." "When I make it worth your while." "Put it that way if you wish." "Do you think that for once in your life you could look less like the devil than you are naturally, and act the role of parson?" "I might if I associate with you long enough. Saintly company might change my expression." "You won't have time to try. You've got to have your clerical look in good working order by Friday. Incidently you are to marry me to the prettiest girl in Massachusetts and keep your mouth closed." As if to end the discussion, Sanderson strode over to his desk and wrote out a check for a thousand dollars. He came back, waving it in the air to dry the ink. "Perhaps you will condescend to explain," Langdon said, as he pocketed the check. "Explanations are always bores, my dear boy. There is a little girl who feels obliged to insist on formalities, not too many. She'll think your acting as the parson the best joke in the world, but it would not do to chaff her about it." "Oh, I see," and Langdon's laugh was not pleasant. "Exactly. You will have everything ready--white choker, black coat and all the rest of it, and now, my dear boy, you've got to excuse me as I've got a lot of work on hand." They shook hands and Langdon's footsteps were soon echoing down the corridor. The foul insinuation that Sanderson had just made about Anna rankled in his mind. He went to the sideboard and poured himself out a good stiff drink. After that, his conscience did not trouble him. The work on account of which he excused himself from Langdon's society, was apparently not of the most pressing order, for Sanderson almost immediately started for Boston, turning his steps towards Mrs. Standish Tremont's. "Mrs. Tremont was not at home," the man announced at the door, "and Mrs. Endicott was confined to her room with a bad headache. Should he take his card to Miss Moore?" Sanderson assented, feeling that fate was with him. "My darling," he said, as Anna came in a moment later, and folded her close in a long embrace. She was paler than when he had last seen her and there were dark rings under her eyes that hinted at long night vigils. "Lennox," she said, "do not think me weak, but I am terribly frightened. It does not seem as if we were doing the right thing by our friends." "Goosey girl," he said, kissing her, "who was it that said no marriage ever suited all parties unconcerned?" She laughed. "I am thinking more of you Lennox, than of myself. Suppose your father should not forgive you, cut you off without a cent, and you should have to drudge all your life with mother and me on your hands! Don't you think you would wish we had never met, or, at least, that I had thought of these things?" "Suppose the sky should fall, or the sun should go out, or that I could stop loving you, or any of the impossible things that could not happen once in a million years. Aren't you ashamed of yourself to doubt me in this way? Answer me, miss," he said with mock ferocity. For answer she laid her cheek against his.--"I am so happy, dear, that I am almost afraid." He pressed her tenderly. "And now, darling, for the conspiracy--Cupid's conspiracy. You write to your mother to-night and say that you will be home on Wednesday because you will. Then tell Mrs. Tremont that you have had a wire from her saying you must go home Friday (I'll see that you _do_ receive such a telegram), and leave Friday morning by the 9:40. I will keep out of the way, because the entire Tremont contingent will doubtless see you off. I will then meet you at one of the stations near Boston. I can't tell you which, till I hear from my friend, the Reverend John Langdon. He will have everything arranged." She looked at him with dilating eyes, her cheeks blanched with fear. "Anna," he said, almost roughly, "if you have no confidence in me, I will go out of your life forever." "Yes, yes, I believe in you," she said. "It isn't that, but it is the first thing I have ever kept from mother, and I would feel so much more comfortable if she knew." "Baby. An' so de ittle baby must tell its muvver ev'yting," he mimicked her, till she felt ashamed of her good impulse--an impulse which if she had yielded to, it would have saved her from all the bitterness she was to know. "And so you will do as I ask you, darling?" "Yes." "Do you promise?" "Yes," and they sealed the bargain with a kiss. "Dearest, I must be going. It would never do for Mrs. Tremont to see us together. I should forget and call you pet names, and then you would be sent supperless to bed, like the little girls in the story books." "I suppose you must go," she said, regretfully. "It will not be for long," and with another kiss he left her. CHAPTER IV. THE MOCK MARRIAGE. "Thus grief still treads upon the heel of pleasure, Married in haste, we may repent at leisure."--_Congreve_. It seemed to Anna when Friday came, that human experience had nothing further to offer in the way of mental anguish and suspense. She had thrashed out the question of her secret marriage to Sanderson till her brain refused to work further, and there was in her mind only dread and a haunting sense of loss. If she had only herself to consider, she would not have hesitated a moment. But Sanderson, his father, and her own mother were all involved. Was she doing right by her mother? At times, the advantage to the invalid accruing from this marriage seemed manifold. Again it seemed to Anna but a senseless piece of folly, prompted by her own selfish love for Sanderson. And so the days wore on until the eventful Friday came, and Anna said good-bye to Mrs. Standish Tremont with livid cheeks and tearful eyes. "And do you feel so badly about going away, my dear?" said the great lady, looking at those visible signs of distress and feeling not a little flattered by her young cousin's show of affection. "We must have you down soon again," and she patted Anna's cheek and hurried her into the car, for Mrs. Tremont had a horror of scenes and signals warned her that Anna was on the verge of tears. The locomotive whistled, the cars gave a jolt, and Anna Moore was launched on her tragic fate. She never knew how the time passed after leaving Mrs. Tremont, till Sanderson joined her at the next station. She felt as if her will power had deserted her, and she was dumbly obeying the behests of some unseen relentless force. She looked at the strange faces about her, hopelessly. Perhaps it was not too late---perhaps some kind motherly woman would tell her if she were doing right. But they all looked so strange and forbidding, and while she turned the question over and over in her mind, the car stopped, the brakeman called the station and Lennox Sanderson got on. She turned to him in her utter perplexity, forgetting he was the cause of it. "My darling, how pale you are. Are you ill?" "Not ill, but----" He would not let her finish, but reassured her by the tenderest of looks, the warmest of hand clasps, and the terrified girl began to lose the hunted feeling that she had. They rode on for fully an hour. Sanderson was perfectly self-possessed. He might have been married every day in the year, for any difference it made in his demeanor. He was perfectly composed, laughed and chatted as wittily as ever. In time, Anna partook of his mood and laughed back. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her mind. At last they stopped at a little station called Whiteford. An old-fashioned carriage was waiting for them; they entered it and the driver, whipped up his horses. A drive of a half mile brought them to an ideal white cottage surrounded by porches and hidden in a tangle of vines. The door was opened for them by the Rev. John Langdon in person. He seemed a preternaturally grave young man to Anna and his clerical attire was above reproach. Any misgivings one might have had regarding him on the score of his youth, were more than counterbalanced by his almost supernatural gravity. He apologized for the absence of his wife, saying she had been called away suddenly, owing to the illness of her mother. His housekeeper and gardener would act as witnesses. Sanderson hastily took Anna to one side and said: "I forgot to tell you, darling, that I am going to be married by my two first names only, George Lennox. It is just the same, but if the Sanderson got into any of those country marriage license papers, I should be afraid the governor would hear of it--penalty of having a great name, you know," he concluded gayly. "Thought I had better mention it, as it would not do to have you surprised over your husband's name." Again the feeling of dread completely over-powered her. She looked at him with her great sorrowful eyes, as a trapped animal will sometimes look at its captor, but she could not speak. Some terrible blight seemed to have overgrown her brain, depriving her of speech and willpower. The witnesses entered. Anna was too agitated to notice that the Rev. John Langdon's housekeeper was a very singular looking young woman for her position. Her hair was conspicuously dark at the roots and conspicuously light on the ends. Her face was hard and when she smiled her mouth, assumed a wolfish expression. She was loudly dressed and wore a profusion of jewelry--altogether a most remarkable looking woman for the place she occupied. The gardener had the appearance of having been suddenly wakened before nature had had her full quota of sleep. He was blear-eyed and his breath was more redolent of liquor than one might have expected in the gardener of a parsonage. The room in which the ceremony was to take place was the ordinary cottage parlor, with crochet work on the chairs, and a profusion of vases and bric-a-brac on the tables. The Rev. John Langdon requested Anna and Sanderson to stand by a little marble table from which the housekeeper brushed a profusion of knick-knacks. There was no Bible. Anna was the first to notice the omission. This seemed to deprive the young clergyman of his dignity. He looked confused, blushed, and turning to the housekeeper told her to fetch the Bible. This seemed to appeal to the housekeeper's sense of humor. She burst out laughing and said something about looking for a needle in a haystack. Sanderson turned on her furiously, and she left the room, looking sour, and muttering indignantly. She returned, after what seemed an interminable space of time, and the ceremony proceeded. Anna did not recognize her own voice as she answered the responses. Sanderson's was clear and ringing; his tones never faltered. When the time came to put the ring on her finger, Anna's hand trembled so violently that the ring fell to the floor and rolled away. Sanderson's face turned pale. It seemed to him like a providential dispensation. For some minutes, the assembled company joined in the hunt for the ring. It was found at length by the yellow-haired housekeeper, who returned it with her most wolfish grin. "Trust Bertha Harris to find things!" said the clergyman. The ceremony proceeded without further incident. The final words were pronounced and Anna sank into a chair, relieved that it was over, whether it was for better or for worse. Sanderson hurried her into the carriage before the clergyman and the witnesses could offer their congratulations. He pulled her away from the yellow-haired housekeeper, who would have smothered her in an embrace, and they departed without the customary handshake from the officiating clergyman. "You were not very cordial, dear," she said, as they rolled along through the early winter landscape. "Confound them all. I hated to see them near you"--and then, in answer to her questioning gaze--"because I love you so much, darling. I hate to see anyone touch you." The trees were bare; the fields stretched away brown and flat, like the folds of a shroud, and the sun was veiled by lowering clouds of gray. It was not a cheerful day for a wedding. "Lennox, did you remember that this is Friday? And I have on a black dress." "And now that Mrs. Lennox has settled the question of to wed or not to wed, by wedding--behold, she is worrying herself about her frock and the color of it, and the day of the week and everything else. Was there ever such a dear little goose?" He pinched her cheek, and she--she smiled up at him, her fears allayed. "And why don't you ask where we are going, least curious of women?" "I forgot; indeed I did." "We are going to the White Rose Inn. Ideal name for a place in which to spend one's honeymoon, isn't it?" "Any place would be ideal with you Lennie," and she slipped her little hand into his ruggeder palm. At last the White Rose Inn was sighted; it was one of those modern hostelries, built on an old English model. The windows were muslined, the rooms were wainscoted in oak, the furniture was heavy and cumbersome. Anna was delighted with everything she saw. Sanderson had had their sitting-room filled with crimson roses, they were everywhere; banked on the mantelpiece, on the tables and window-sills. Their perfume was to Anna like the loving embrace of an old friend. Jacqueminots had been so closely associated with her acquaintance with Sanderson, in after years she could never endure their perfume and their scarlet petals unnerved her, as the sight of blood does some women. A trim English maid came to assist "Mrs. Lennox," to unpack her things. Lunch was waiting in the sitting-room. Sanderson gave minute orders about the icing of his own particular brand of champagne, which he had had sent from Boston. Anna had recovered her good spirits. It seemed "such a jolly lark," as her husband said. "Sweetheart, your happiness," he said, and raised his glass to hers. Her eyes sparkled like the champagne. The honeymoon at the White Rose Tavern had begun very merrily. CHAPTER V. A LITTLE GLIMPSE OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN. "The moon--the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shady--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range Is the moon--so called--of honey."--_Hood_. "My dear, will you kindly pour me a second cup of coffee? Not because I really want it, you know, but entirely for the aesthetic pleasure of seeing your pretty little hands pattering about the cups." Lennox Sanderson, in a crimson velvet smoking jacket, was regarding Anna with the most undisguised admiration from the other side of the round table, that held their breakfast,--their first honeymoon breakfast, as Anna supposed it to be. "Anything to please my husband," she answered with a flitting blush. "Your husband? Ah, say it again; it sounds awfully good from you." "So you don't really care for any more coffee, but just want to see my hands among the cups. How appreciative you are!" And there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she began with great elaboration the pantomimic representation of pouring a cup of coffee, adding sugar and cream; and concluded by handing the empty cup to Sanderson. "It would be such a pity to waste the coffee, Lennie, when you only wanted to see my hands." "If I am not going to have the coffee, I insist on both the hands," he said, taking them and kissing them repeatedly. "I suppose I'll have to give it to you on those terms," and she proceeded to fill the cup in earnest this time. "Let me see. How is it that you like it? One lump of sugar and quite a bit of cream? And tea perfectly clear with nothing at all and toast very crisp and dry. Dear me, how do women ever remember all their husband's likes and dislikes? It's worse than learning a new multiplication table over again," and the most adorable pucker contracted her pretty brows. "And yet, see how beautifully widows manage it, even taking the thirty-third degree and here you are, complaining before you are initiated, and kindly remember, Mrs. Lennox Sanderson, if I take but one lump of sugar in my coffee, there are other ways of sweetening it." Presumably he got it sweetened to his satisfaction, for the proprietor of the "White Rose," who attended personally to the wants of "Mr. and Mrs. Lennox" had to cough three times before he found it discreet to enter and inquire if everything was satisfactory. He bowed three times like a disjointed foot rule and then retired to charge up the wear and tear to his backbone under the head of "special attendance." "H-m-m!" sighed Sanderson, as the door closed on the bowing form of the proprietor, "that fellow's presence reminds me that we are not absolutely alone in the world, and you had almost convinced me that we were, darling, and that by special Providence, this grim old earth had been turned into a second Garden of Eden for our benefit. Aren't you going to kiss me and make me forget in earnest, this time?" "I'm sure, Lennie, I infinitely prefer the 'White Rose Inn' with you, to the Garden of Paradise with Adam." She not only granted the request, but added an extra one for interest. "You'll make me horribly vain, Anna, if you persist in preferring me to Adam; but then I dare say, Eve would have preferred him and Paradise to me and the 'White Rose.'" "But, then, Eve's taste lacked discrimination. She had to take Adam or become the first girl bachelor. With me there might have been alternatives." "There might have been others, to speak vulgarly?" "Exactly." "By Jove, Anna, I don't see how you ever did come to care for me!" The laughter died out of his eyes, his face grew prefer naturally grave, he strode over to the window and looked out on the desolate landscape. For the first time he realized the gravity of his offense. His crime against this girl, who had been guilty of nothing but loving him too deeply stood out, stripped of its trappings of sentiment, in all its foul selfishness. He would right the wrong, confess to her; but no, he dare not, she was not the kind of woman to condone such an offense. "Needles and pins, needles and pins, when a man's married his trouble begins," quoted Anna gayly, slipping up behind him and, putting her arms about his neck; "one would think the old nursery ballad was true, to look at you, Lennox Sanderson. I never saw such a married-man expression before in my life. You wanted to know why I fell in love with you. I could not help it, because you are YOU." She nestled her head in his shoulder and he forgot his scruples in the sorcery of her presence. "Darling," he said; taking her in his arms, with perhaps the most genuine affection he ever felt for her, "I wish we could spend our lives here in this quiet little place, and that there were no troublesome relations or outside world demanding us." "So do I, dear," she answered, "but it could not last; we are too perfectly happy." Neither spoke for some minutes. At that time he loved her as deeply as it was possible for him to love anyone. Again the impulse came to tell her, beg for forgiveness and make reparation. He was holding her in his arms, considering. A moment more, and he would have given way to the only unselfish impulse in his life. But again the knock, followed by the discreet cough of the proprietor. And when he entered to tell them that the horses were ready for their drive, "Mrs. Lennox" hastened to put on her jacket and "Mr. Lennox" thanked his stars that he had not spoken. CHAPTER VI. THE WAYS OF DESOLATION. "Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom when betray'd."--_Moore_. Four months had elapsed since the honeymoon at the White Rose Tavern, and Anna was living at Waltham with her mother who grew more fretful and complaining every day. The marriage was still the secret of Anna and Sanderson. The honeymoon at the White Rose had been prolonged to a week, but no suspicion had entered the minds of Mrs. Moore or Mrs. Standish Tremont, thanks to Sanderson's skill in sending fictitious telegrams, aided by so skilled an accomplice as the "Rev." John Langdon. Week after week, Anna had yielded to Sanderson's entreaties and kept her marriage a secret from her mother. At first he had sent her remittances of money with frequent regularity, but, lately, they had begun to fall off, his letters were less frequent, shorter and more reserved in tone, and the burden of it all was crushing the youth out of the girl and breaking her spirit. She had grown to look like some great sorrowful-eyed Madonna, and her beauty had in it more of the spiritual quality of an angel than of a woman. As the spring came on, and the days grew longer she looked like one on whom the hand of death had been laid. Her friends noticed this, but not her mother, who was so engrossed with her own privations, that she had no time or inclination for anything else. "Anna, Anna, to think of our coming to this!" she would wail a dozen times a day--or, "Anna, I can't stand it another minute," and she would burst into paroxysms of grief, from which nothing could arouse her, and utterly exhausted by her own emotions, which
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By CHARLES HOARE, Author of “The Slide Rule,” &c. Ninth Edition. 32mo, leather =6/0= “For comprehensiveness the book has not its equal.”—_Iron._ “One of the best of the pocket books.”—_English Mechanic._ CONDENSED MECHANICS. A Selection of Formulæ, Rules, Tables, and Data or the Use of Engineering Students, Science Classes, &c. In accordance with the Requirements of the Science and Art Department. By W. G. CRAWFORD HUGHES, A.M.I.C.E. Crown 8vo, cloth =2/6= “The book is well fitted for those who are either confronted with practical problems in their work, or are preparing for examination and wish to refresh their knowledge by going through their formulæ again.”—_Marine Engineer._ “It is well arranged, and meets the wants of those for whom it is intended.”—_Railway News._ THE SAFE USE OF STEAM. Containing Rules for Unprofessional Steam Users. By an ENGINEER. Seventh Edition. Sewed =6D.= “If steam-users would but learn this little book by heart, boiler explosions would become sensations by their rarity.”—_English Mechanic._ HEATING BY HOT WATER. With Information and Suggestions on the best Methods of Heating Public, Private and Horticultural Buildings. By WALTER JONES. Second Edition. With 96 Illustrations, crown 8vo, cloth _Net_ =2/6= “We confidently recommend all interested in heating by hot water to secure a copy of this valuable little treatise.”—_The Plumber and Decorator._ THE LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE. The Autobiography of an Old Locomotive Engine. By ROBERT WEATHERBURN, M.I.M.E. With Illustrations and Portraits of GEORGE and ROBERT STEPHENSON. Crown 8vo, cloth. [_Just Published._ _Net_ =2/6= SUMMARY OF CONTENTS:—PROLOGUE.—CYLINDERS.—MOTIONS.—CONNECTING RODS.—FRAMES.—WHEELS.—PUMPS, CLACKS, &C.—INJECTORS.—BOILERS.—SMOKE BOX.—CHIMNEY.—WEATHER BOARD AND AWNING.—INTERNAL DISSENSIONS.—ENGINE DRIVERS, &C. “It would be difficult to imagine anything more ingeniously planned, more cleverly worked out, and more charmingly written. Readers cannot fail to find the volume most enjoyable.”—_Glasgow Herald._ THE LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE AND ITS DEVELOPMENT. A Popular Treatise on the Gradual Improvements made in Railway Engines between 1803 and 1896. By CLEMENT E. STRETTON, C.E. Fifth Edition, Enlarged. With 120 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth. [_Just Published._ =3/6= “Students of railway history and all who are interested in the evolution of the modern locomotive will find much to attract and entertain in this volume.”—_The Times._ LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE DRIVING. A Practical Manual for Engineers in Charge of Locomotive Engines. By MICHAEL REYNOLDS, Member of the Society of Engineers, formerly Locomotive Inspector, L. B. & S. C. R. Ninth Edition. Including a KEY TO THE LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE. Crown 8vo, cloth =4/6= “Mr. Reynolds has supplied a want, and has supplied it well. We can confidently recommend the book not only to the practical driver, but to everyone who takes an interest in the performance of locomotive engines.”—_The Engineer._ “Mr. Reynolds has opened a new chapter in the literature of the day. His treatise is admirable.”—_Athenæum._ THE MODEL LOCOMOTIVE ENGINEER, Fireman, and Engine-Boy. Comprising a Historical Notice of the Pioneer Locomotive Engines and their Inventors. By MICHAEL REYNOLDS. Second Edition, with Revised Appendix. Crown 8vo, cloth. [_Just Published._ =4/6= “From the technical knowledge of the author, it will appeal to the railway man of to-day more forcibly than anything written by Dr. Smiles.... 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He has produced a manual which is an exceedingly useful one for the class for whom it is specially intended.”—_Engineering._ “Our author leaves no stone unturned. He is determined that his readers shall not only know something about the stationary engine, but all about it.”—_Engineer._ ENGINE-DRIVING LIFE. Stirring Adventure and Incidents in the Lives of Locomotive Engine-Drivers. By MICHAEL REYNOLDS. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth =1/6= “Perfectly fascinating. Wilkie Collins’s most thrilling conceptions are thrown into the shade by true incidents, endless in their variety, related in every page.”—_North British Mail._ THE ENGINEMAN’S POCKET COMPANION, And Practical Educator for Enginemen, Boiler Attendants, and Mechanics. By MICHAEL REYNOLDS. With 45 Illustrations and numerous Diagrams. Fourth Edition, Revised. Royal 18mo, strongly bound for pocket wear =3/6= “This admirable work is well suited to accomplish its object, being the honest workmanship of a competent engineer.”—_Glasgow Herald._ CIVIL ENGINEERING, SURVEYING, &c. LIGHT RAILWAYS FOR THE UNITED KINGDOM, INDIA, AND THE COLONIES. A Practical Handbook setting forth the Principles on which Light Railways should be Constructed, Worked, and Financed; and detailing the Cost of Construction, Equipment, Revenue and Working Expenses of Local Railways already established in the above-mentioned countries, and in Belgium, France, Switzerland, &c. By J. C. MACKAY, F.G.S., A.M. Inst. C.E. Illustrated with Plates and Diagrams. Medium 8vo, cloth. [_Just Published._ =15/0= “Mr. Mackay’s volume is clearly and concisely written, admirably arranged, and freely illustrated. The book is exactly what has been long wanted. We recommend it to all interested in the subject. It is sure to have a wide sale.”—_Railway News._ “Those who desire to have within reach general information concerning almost all the light railway systems in the world will do well to buy Mr. Mackay’s book.”—_Engineer._ “This work appears very opportunely, when the extension of the system on a large scale to England is at last being mooted. In its pages we find all the information that the heart of man can desire on the subject... every detail in its story, founded on the experience of other countries and applied to the possibilities of England, is put before us.”—_Spectator._ PRACTICAL TUNNELLING. Explaining in detail Setting-out the Works, Shaft-sinking, and Heading-driving, Ranging the Lines and Levelling underground, Sub-Excavating, Timbering and the Construction of the Brickwork of Tunnels, with the amount of Labour required for, and the Cost of, the various portions of the work. By FREDERICK W. SIMMS, M. Inst. C.E. Fourth Edition, Revised and Further Extended, including the most recent (1895) Examples of Sub-aqueous and other Tunnels, by D. KINNEAR CLARK, M. Inst. C.E. Imperial 8vo, with 34 Folding Plates and other Illustrations. Cloth. [_Just Published._ =£2 2S.= “The present (1896) edition has been brought right up to date, and is thus rendered a work to which civil engineers generally should have ready access, and to which engineers who have construction work can hardly afford to be without, but which to the younger members of the profession is invaluable, as from its pages they can learn the state to which the science of tunnelling has attained.”—_Railway News._ “The estimation in which Mr. Simms’s book has been held for many years cannot be more truly expressed than in the words of the late Prof. Rankine: ‘The best source of information on
laugh so. You talk of your saying good things; I said one of the best things last week that ever any man said in all the world. It was what you call your _rappartées_, your _bobinâtes_. I'll tell you what it was: You must know, I was in high spirits, faith, so I stole a dog from a blind man, for I do love fun! so then the blind man cried for his dog, and that made me laugh; so says I to the blind man, 'Hip, master, do you want your dog?' 'Yes, sir,' says he. Now, only mind what I said to the blind man. Says I, 'Do you want your dog?' 'Yes, sir,' says he. Then says I to the blind man, says I, 'Go look for him.'--Keep it up! keep it up!--That's the worst of it, I always turn sick when I think of a parson, I always do; and my brother he {20}is a parson too, and he hates to hear any body swear; so I always swear when I am along with him, to roast him. I went to dine with him one day last week, and there was my sisters, and two or three more of what you call your modest women; but I sent 'em all from the table before the dinner was half over, for I loves fun; and so there was nobody but my brother and me, and I begun to swear; I never swore so well in all my life; I swore all my new oaths; it would have done you good to have heard me swear: so then, my brother looked frightened, and that was fun. At last he laid down his knife and fork, and lifting up his hands and his eyes, he calls out, _Oh Tempora! oh Mores!_---'Oh ho, brother!' says I, 'what, you think to frighten me, by calling all your family about you; but I don't mind you, nor your family neither--Only bring Tempora and Mores here, that's all; I'll box them for five pounds; here,--where's Tempora and Mores? where are they?--Keep it up! keep it up!" END OF PART I. PART II. THE FIVE SCIENCES: ARCHITECTURE, PAINTING, POETRY, MUSIC, AND ASTRONOMY. {21}This is a small exhibition of pictures. These pictures are placed here to shew the partiality of the present times. Formerly seven cities contended for the honour of having Homer for their countryman; but as soon as it was known these sciences were born in England, the whole club of Connoiseurs exclaimed against them, saying, it was impossible that there could be any real genius among them, our atmosphere being too thick and too heavy to nourish any fine ideas. These sciences, being found out to be mere English, were treated as impostors; for, as they had not ft handsome wife, nor sister, to speak for them, not one single election vote in their family, nor a shilling in their pockets to bribe the turnpike {22}door-keeper, they could not succeed; besides, Chinese, zig-zag, and gothic imitations, monopolized all premiums: and the envy of prejudice, and the folly of fashion, made a party against them. They were so weak in themselves, as to imagine the merits of their works would recommend them to the world. Poor creatures! they knew nothing of the world, to suppose so; for merit is the only thing in the world not recommendable. To prevent starving, Architecture hired herself as a brick-layer's {23}labourer to a Chinese temple-builder; Painting took on as a colour-grinder to a paper-stainer; Poetry turned printer's devil; Music sung ballads about the streets: and Astronomy {24}sold almanacks. They rambled about in this manner for some time; at last, they picked up poor Wit, who lay ill of some bruises he had received one masquerade night. As poor Wit was coming down the Haymarket, just as the masquerade was breaking up, the noise of a pickpocket was announced, upon which Buffoonery fell upon Wit, and mangled him most piteously. Invention stood Wit's friend, and help-ed him to make his escape to those Sciences. Now it happened that night, Lady Fashion had lost her lap-dog, which Wit found, and brought to these his companions, for whom Architecture built a little house; Painting made a portrait of it: Poetry wrote a copy of verses upon it, which Music put a tune to; and Astronomy calculated the dear creature's nativity; which so pleased Lady Fashion, that she recommended them to the house of Ostentation, but left Wit behind, because as wit was out of taste, Fashion would not have any thing to say to it. However, some of her Ladyship's upper servants invited Wit into the steward's room, and, according to the idea some folks have of Wit, they begged he'd be comical. One brought him a poker to bend over his arm; another desired he would eat a little fire for 'em before dinner; the {25}butler requested a tune upon the musical glasses; my lady's woman desired he would tell her fortune by the cards; and the grooms said, "as how, if his honour was a wit, he could ride upon three horses at once." But before Wit could answer to any of these questions, the French governess belonging to the family came down stairs, and ordered Wit to be turned out of doors, saying, "Vat want you vid Vit, when you are studying à la Françoise? I'll vous assurez, I'll vous assurez, if you will have us for your masters, you must have no vit at all." [_The sciences taken off._] Poor Wit being turned out of doors, wandered about friendless, for it was never yet known that a man's wit ever gained him a friend. He applied himself to the proprietors of the newspapers, but upon their inquiring whether he understood politics, and being totally ignorant of them, they would not employ him. He enquired after Friendship, but found Friendship was drowned at the last general election; he went to find out Hospitality, but Hospitality being invited to a turtle-feast, there was no room for Wit; he asked after Charity, but it being found that Charity was that day run over by a bishop's new set of coach-horses, he died broken-hearted, being a distemper which, although {26}not catalogued in the Materia Medica, is very epidemical among beautiful women, and men of genius, who, having worn themselves out in making other people happy, are at last neglected, and left to perish amid age and infirmity, wondering how the world could be so ungrateful. Here is the Head of a Connoisseur. [_Takes the head._]--Though born in this kingdom, he had travelled long enough to fall in love with every thing foreign, and despise every thing belonging to his own country, except himself. He pretended to be a great judge of paintings, but only admired those done a great way off, and a great while ago; he could not bear anything done by any of his own countrymen; and one day being in an auction-room where {27}there was a number of capital pictures, and, among the rest, an inimitable piece of painting of fruits and flowers, the Connoisseur would not give his opinion of the picture until he had examined his catalogue, and finding it was done by an Englishman, he pulled out his eye-glass [_Takes the eyeglass,_] "O, Sir," says he, "these English fellows have no more idea of genius than a Dutch skipper has of dancing a cotillion; the dog has spoiled a fine piece of canvas; he's worse than a Harp-Alley sign-post dauber; there's no keeping, no perspective, no fore-ground;--why there now, the fellow {28}has attempted to paint a fly upon that rose-bud, why it's no more like a fly than I am like an a--a--." But as the connoisseur approached his finger to the picture, the fly flew away---His eyes are half closed; this is called the wise man's wink, and shews he can see the world with half an eye; he had so wonderful a penetration, so inimitable a forecast, he always could see how every thing was to be--after the affair was over. Then talking of the affairs of administration, he told his lordship, that he could see how things were all along, they could not deceive him. "I can see if other people can't; I can see, if the ministry take the lead, they won't be behind hand." This man found out the only scheme that ever could be invented for paying off the national debt; the scheme that he found out, he discovered to the ministry as follows: "Now, my lord duke, I have a scheme to pay off our nation's debt without burthening the subject with a fresh tax; my scheme is as follows: I would have all the Thames water bottled up, and sold for Spa water. Who'll buy it, you'll say? Why the waterman's company must buy it, or they never could work their boats any more: there's a {29}scheme to pay off the nation's debt, without burthening the subject with a fresh tax." [_ Takes the head off._] Here is a companion for that connoisseur; this is one of your worldly-wise men, wise in his own conceit; he laughed at all modes of faith, and would have a reason given him for every thing. He disinherited his only son because the lad could not give him a reason why a black hen laid a white egg. He was a great materialist, and thus he proved the infinity of matter. He told them, that all round things were globular, all square things flat-sided. Now, Sir, if the bottom is equal to the top, and the top equal to the bottom, and the {30}bottom and the top are equal to the four sides, _ergo_, all matter is as broad as it is long. But he had not in his head matter sufficient to prove matter efficient; being thus deficient, he knew nothing of the matter. [_ Takes off the head._] We shall now exhibit a Freeholder's Head in a very particular state--in a state of intoxication. [_Shews the head._] These pieces of money are placed like doors over the senses, to open and shut just as the distributor of the medicine pleases. And here is an election picture [_shews it_]: all hands are catching at this; 'tis an interpretation of that famous sentiment, "May we have in our arms those we love in our hearts." Now the day of election is {31}madman's holiday, 'tis the golden day of liberty, which every voter, on that day, takes to market, and is his own salesman: for man at that time being considered as a mere machine, is acted upon as machines are, and, to make his wheels move properly, he is properly greased in the fist. [_ Gives off the picture. _] Every freeholder enjoys his portion of septennial insanity: he'll eat and drink with every body without paying for it, because he's bold and free; then he'll knock down every body who won't say as he says, to prove his abhorrence of arbitrary power, and preserve the liberty of Old England for ever, huzza! [_Gives off the head._] The first contested election happened between the three goddesses upon Mount Ida, whose names were, Juno, Minerva, and Venus, when Paris was the returning officer, who decreed in favour of Venus, by presenting her with the golden apple. [_ Takes up the money._] Juno, on her approaching Paris, told him, that though it was beneath her dignity to converse with a mortal, yet, if he would be her friend, she would make him a nabob. Minerva told him how that learning was better than house and land, and if he would be her friend, she would teach him _propria quæ maribus_. But Venus, who thought it would be wasting time to make {32}use of words, gave him such a look as put her in possession of the golden apple. The queen of beauty, out of gratitude to Paris, who had so well managed the election for her, made him a present of several slices of that golden pippin, and, in commemoration of that event, such slices have been made use of as presents at all other general elections; they have a sympathy like that which happens to electrical wires, let a hundred hold them in their hands, their sensations will be the same; but they differ from electricity in one essential point, which is, that though the touch be ever so great, it never shocks people. It is a general remark, that novelty is the master-passion of the English; nothing goes down without it, and nothing so gross, that it will not make palatable; the art therefore of insuring success in this town to every adventurer, is, to hit upon something new, as the phrase is; no matter what it is, it will prove equally attracting, whether it be a woman riding upon her head at Westminster-Bridge, or one without any head at all, debating upon politics and religion at Westminster Forum: but here, let not my fair countrywomen condemn me as an unmannerly satirist; we respect the taste and understanding, as much as we admire {33}the beauty and delicacy of the sex; but surely no woman of sense would suppose we meant to offend her, if we said she was the most improper person in the world to be made a captain of horse, or a member of parliament. This is the head [_takes the head_] of a Female Moderator, or President of the Ladies' Debating Society: she can prove to a demonstration that man is an usurper of dignities and preferments, and that her sex has a just right to participation of both with him: she would have physicians in petticoats, and lawyers with high heads and French curls; then she would have _young_ women of spirit to command our fleets and armies, and _old_ ones to govern the state:--she pathetically laments that {34}women are considered as mere domestic animals, fit only for making puddings, pickling cucumbers, or registering cures for the measles and chincough. If this lady's wishes for reformation should ever be accomplished, we may expect to hear that an admiral is in the histerics, that a general has miscarried, and that a prime minister was brought to bed the moment she opened the budget. This is the head [_shews it_] of a Male Moderator, and president of eloquence, at one of her schools in this metropolis. We have schools for fencing, schools for dancing, and schools at which we learn every thing but those things which we {35}ought to learn: but this is a school to teach a man to be an orator; it can convert a cobler into a Demosthenes; make him thunder over porter, and lighten over gin, and qualify him to speak on either side of the question in the house of commons, who has not so much as a single vote for a member of parliament. Here political tobacconists smoke the measures of government in cut and dry arguments; here opposition taylors prove the nation has been cabbaged; here sadlers, turned statesmen, find a curb for the ministry; here the minority veteran players argue that the scene ought to be shifted; that the king's household wants a better manager; that there is no necessity for a wardrobe-keeper; that his majesty's company are a set of very bad actors; and he humbly moves that the king should discharge his prompter. Some time ago, the president of this society had a great constitutional point to decide; but not acquitting himself to the satisfaction of the ladies, this spirited female seized the chair of state, and with the crack of her fan opened the business of the evening; declaring, as women had wisely abolished the vulgar custom of domestic employment, she saw no reason why their knowledge should be confined to the dress of a {36}head or the flounce of a petticoat; that government, in peace and war, was as much their province as the other sex, nay more; with regard to peace, very little was to be expected where women did not rule with absolute sway; in respect to war, she insisted, at least, upon an equivalent, and quoted the examples of many heroines, from the days of Boadicea, who headed her own armies, down to Hannah Snell, who served in the ranks; she appealed to her auditors if, notwithstanding their plumes, that assembly had not as warlike an appearance as half the officers of the guards, and doubted not but they'd prove to have full as much courage, if ever put to their shifts. "In history and politics," continued she, "have not we a Macaulay? in books of entertainment, a Griffiths? and in dramatic works an author that, in the last new comedy of '_Which is the Man_,' disputes the bays with the genius of Drury? Ladies, were it possible to find a man that would dispute the eloquence of our tongues, I am sure he must readily yield to the superior eloquence of our eyes." The gallery cried 'Bravo!' the assembly joined in general plaudit; and Miss Susannah Cross-stich was chosen nem. con. perpetual president. {37}Before I put these heads on one side, I shall give a derivation of their title. Moderator is derived from _mode_, the fashion, and _rate_, a tax; and, in its compound sense, implies that Fashion advised these two to lay their heads together, in order to take advantage of the passion of the public for out-of-the-way opinions, and out-of-the-way undertakings. This head seems to be of that order that should inculcate the doctrine of charity, meekness, and benevolence: but, not finding his labours in the vineyard sufficiently rewarded, according to the value he sets upon himself, is now (like many of his functions) an apostate from grace to faction; and, with a political pamphlet in his hand, instead of a moral discourse, the pulpit is now become (as Hudibras expresses it) a drum ecclesiastic, and volunteers are beat up for in that place, where nothing should be thought of but proselytes to truth. {38}Among the many heads that have played upon the passions of the public, this is one [_takes the head'_] that did cut a capital figure in that way. This is the head of Jonas, or the card-playing conjuring Jew. He could make matadores with a snap of his fingers, command the four aces with a whistle, and get odd tricks. But there is a great many people in London, besides this man, famous for playing odd tricks, and yet no conjurers neither. This man would have made a great figure in the law, as he is so dexterous a conveyancer. But the law is a profession that does not want any jugglers. Nor do we need any longer to load our heads with the weight of learning, or pore {39} for years over arts and sciences, when a few months' practice with these pasteboard pages [_takes the cards_] can make any man's fortune, without his understanding a single letter of the alphabet, provided he can but slip the cards, snap his fingers, and utter the unintelligible jargon of 'presto, passa, largo, mento, cocolorum, yaw' like this Jonas. The moment he comes into company, and takes up a pack of cards, he begins, "I am no common slight-of hand man; the common slight-of-hand men, they turn up the things up their sleeves, and make you believe their fingers deceive your eyes. Now, sir, you shall draw one card, two cards, three cards, four cards, five cards, half a dozen cards; you look at the card at this side, you look at the card at that side, and I say blow the blast; the blast is blown, the card is flown, yaw, yaw: and now, sir, I will do it once more over again, to see whether my fingers can once more deceive your eyes. I'll give any man ten thousand pounds if he do the like. You look at the card of this side, you look at the card on that side; when I say blow the blast, the blast is blown, the card is shown, yaw, yaw." But this conjurer, at length discovering that most practitioners on cards, now-a-days, know as many tricks as himself, {40}and finding his slights of hand turned to little or no account, now practises on notes of hand by discount, and is to be found every morning at twelve in Duke's-place, up to his knuckles in dirt, and at two at the Bank coffee-house, up to his elbows in money, where these locusts of society, over a dish of coffee and the book of interest, supply the temporary wants of necessitous men, and are sure to out-wit 'em, had they even the cunning of a... Fox! Here is the head of another Fashionable Foreigner [_shews the head_], a very simple machine; for he goes upon one spring, self-interest. This head may be compared to a _disoblezeance_; for there is but one seat in it, and that is not the seat {41}of understanding: yet it is wonderful how much more rapidly this will move in the high road of preferment than one of your thinking, feeling, complex, English heads, in which honour, integrity, and reason, make such a pother, that no step can be taken without consulting them. This head, if I may be allowed to speak with an Irish accent, was a long time boasting of his _feats_: but the last _fète_ he attempted proved his _defeat_; for, in springing too high, he got such a fall as would disgrace an Englishman for ever, and which none but a foreigner's head could recover. Is it not a pity that foreigners should be admitted familiarly into the houses of the great, while Englishmen, of real merit, shall be thrust from their doors with contempt? An instance of which happened in the following picture--[_The picture brought, and he goes before it._] {42}Here is an Opera Dancer, or Singer, maintained by us in all the luxury of extravagance; and in the back ground a maimed soldier and sailor, who were asking alms, and thrown down by the insolence of the opera singer's chairman; yet the sailor lost his arm with the gallant Captain Pierson, and the soldier left his leg on the plains of Minden. Instead of paying a guinea to see a man stand on one leg--would it not be better employed were it given to a man who had but one leg to stand on? But, while these dear creatures condescend to come over here, to sing to us for {43}the trifling sum of fifteen hundred or two thousand guineas yearly, in return for such their condescension, we cannot do too much for them, and that is the reason why we do so little for our own people. This is the way we reward those who only bring folly into the country, and the other is the way, and the only way, with which we reward our deliverers. [_The picture taken off._] Among the number of exotics, calculated for this evening's entertainment, the head of an opera composer, or burletta projector, should have been exhibited, could I have been lucky enough to hit upon any droll visage for that exhibition: but, after many experiments, I was convinced that no head for that representation could be so truly ridiculous as my own, if this assembly do me the honour to accept it. [_Takes up the music-frame and book._] Suppose me, for once, a burletta projector, Who attempts a mock musical scrap of a lecture. Suppose this thing a harpsichord or a spinnet; We must suppose so, else there's nothing in it; And thus I begin, tho' a stranger to graces. Those deficiencies must be supplied by grimaces, And the want of wit made up by making of faces. {44}[_Changes wigs and sits down._] Come, Carro, come, attend affetuoso, English be dumb, your language is but so so; Adagio is piano, allegro must be forte, Go wash my neck and sleeves, because this shirt is dirty Mon charmant, prenez guarda, Mind what your signior begs, Ven you wash, don't scrub so harda, You may rub my shirt to rags. Vile you make the water hotter-- Uno solo I compose. Put in the pot the nice sheep's trotter, And de little petty toes; De petty toes are little feet, De little feet not big, Great feet belong to de grunting hog, De petty toes to de little pig. Come, daughter dear, carissima anima mea, Go boil the kittle, make me some green tea a. Ma bella dolce sogno, Vid de tea, cream, and sugar bono, And a little slice Of bread and butter nice. A bravo bread, and butter Bravissimo-----------imo. END OF PART II. PART III. [_Discovers two ladies on the table._] {45}In spite of all the sneers, prints, and paragraphs, that have been published to render the ladies' headdresses ridiculous, sure, when fancy prompts a fine woman to lead the fashion, how can any man be so Hottentotish as to find fault with it? I hope here to be acquitted from any design of rendering the ladies ridiculous; all I aim at is to amuse. Here is a rich dressed lady without elegance.--Here is an elegant dressed lady without riches; for riches can no more give grace than they can beget understanding. A multiplicity of ornaments may load the wearer, but can never distinguish the gentlewoman. [_Gives off the delicate lady._] This is a representation of those misled ladies whose families having gained great fortunes by trade, begin to be ashamed of the industry of their ancestors, {46}and turn up their nose at every thing mechanical, and call it _wulgar_. They are continually thrusting themselves among the nobility, to have it said they keep quality company, and for that empty qualification expose themselves to all the tortures of ill treatment; because it is a frolic for persons of rank to mortify such their imitators. This is vanity without honour, and dignity at second-hand, and shews that ladies may so far entangle the line of beauty, by not having it properly unwound for them, till they are lost in a labyrinth of fashionable intricacies. [_Gives the head off. Takes the head of Cleopatra._] Here is a real antique; this is the head of that famous demirep of antiquity, called Cleopatra, {47}This is the way the ladies of antiquity used to dress their heads in a morning. [_Gives the head off._] And this is the way the ladies at present dress their heads in a morning. [_Takes the head._] A lady in this dress seems hooded like a hawk, with a blister on each cheek for the tooth-ach. One would imagine this fashion had been invented by some surly duenna, or ill-natured guardian, on purpose to prevent ladies turning to one side or the other; and that may be the reason why now every young lady chooses to look forward. As the world is round, every thing turns round along with it; no wonder there should be such revolutions in ladies' head-dresses. This was in fashion two or three years past; this is the fashion of last year [_takes a head up_]; and this the morning headdress [_takes the head_] of this present _anno domini_. These are the winkers, and these are the blinkers. But, as the foibles of the ladies ought to be treated with the utmost delicacy, all we can say of these three heads, thus hoodwinked, is, that they are emblems of the three graces, who, thus muffled, have a mind to play at blindman's buff together. [_Gives the heads off._] {48}We shall now exhibit the head of An Old Maid. [_Takes the head._] This is called antiquated virginity; it is a period when elderly unmarried ladies are supposed to be bearing apes about in leading-strings, as a punishment, because, when those elderly unmarried ladies were young and beautiful, they made monkies of mankind. Old maids are supposed to be ill-natured and crabbed, as wine kept too long on the lees will turn to vinegar. {49}Not to be partial to either sex [_takes the head up_], as a companion to the Old Maid, here is the head of An Old Bachelor. These old bachelors are mere bullies; they are perpetually abusing matrimony, without ever daring to accept of the challenge. When they are in company they are ever exclaiming against hen-pecked husbands, saying, if they were married, their wives should never go any where without asking their lords and masters' leave; and if they were married, the children should never cry, nor the servants commit a fault: they'd set the house to rights; they would do every thing. But the lion-like talkers abroad are mere baa-lambs at home, being generally dupes and slaves to some termagant mistress, against whose imperiousness they dare not open their lips, {50}but are frightened even if she frowns. Old bachelors, in this, resemble your pretenders to atheism, who make a mock in public of what in private they tremble at and fall down to. When they become superannuated, they set up for suitors, they ogle through spectacles, and sing love songs to ladies with catarrhs by way of symphonies, and they address a young lady with, "Come, my dear, I'll put on my spectacles and pin your handkerchief for you; I'll sing you a love song; 'How can you, lovely Nancy!'" &c. [_Laughs aloud._] How droll to hear the dotards aping youth, And talk of love's delights without a tooth! [_Gives the head off._] {51}It is something odd that ladies shall have their charms all abroad in this manner [_takes the head_], and the very next moment this shall come souse over their _heads_, like an extinguisher. [_Pulls the calash over._] This is a hood in high taste at the upper end of the town; and this [_takes the head_] a hood in high taste at the lower end of the town. Not more different are these two heads in their dresses than they are in their manner of conversation: this makes use of a delicate dialect, it being thought polite pronunciation to say instead of cannot, _ca'ant_; must not _ma'ant_; shall not, _sha'ant_, This clipping of letters would be extremely detrimental to the current coin of conversation, did not these good dames make ample amends by adding supernumerary syllables when they talk of _break-fastes_, and _toastesses_, and running their heads against the postasses to avoid the wild _beastesses_. These female orators, brought up at the bar of Billingsgate, have a peculiar way of expressing themselves, which, however indelicate it may seem to more civilized ears, is exactly conformable to the way of ancient oratory. The difference between ancient and modern oratory consists in saying something or nothing to the purpose. Some people talk without saying any thing; some people {52}don't care what they say; some married men would be glad to have nothing to say to their wives; and some husbands would be full as glad if their wives had not any thing to say to them. [_ Gives the head off._] Ancient oratory is the gift of just persuasion; modern oratory the knack of putting words, not things, together; for speech-makers now are estimated, not by the merit, but by the length of their harangues; they are minuted as we do galloping horses, and their goodness rated according as they hold out against time. For example, a gentleman lately coming into a coffee-house, and expressing himself highly pleased with some debates which he had just then heard, one of his acquaintance begged the favour that he would tell the company what the debates were about. "About, Sir!--Yes, Sir.--About!--what were they debating about? Why they were about five hours long." "But what did they say, Sir?" "What did they say, Sir? Why one man said every thing; he was up two hours, three quarters, nineteen seconds, and five eighths, by my watch, which is the best stop-watch in England; so, if I don't know what he said, who should? for I had my eye upon my watch all the time he was speaking." "Which side was he of?" "Why {53}he was of my side, I stood close by him all the time." Here are the busts of two ancient laughing and crying Philosophers, or orators. [_Takes the two heads up._] These in their life-time were heads, of two powerful factions, called the Groaners and the Grinners. _(Holds one head in each hand.)_ This Don Dismal's faction, is a representation of that discontented part of mankind who are always railing at the times, and the world, and the people of the world: This is a good-natured fellow, that made the best of every thing: and this Don Dismal would attack his brother--"Oh, brother! brother! brother! what will this world come to?" "The same place it set out from this day twelve-month." "When will the nation's debt be paid {54}off?" "Will you pass your word for it?" "These are very slippery times--very slippery times." "They are always so in frosty weather." "What's become of our liberty?--Where shall we find liberty?" "In Ireland, to be sure." "I can't bear to see such times." "Shut your eyes then." [_ Gives the heads off._] It may seem strange to those spectators [_takes the head_] who are unacquainted with the reasons that induce ladies to appear in such caricatures, how that delicate sex can walk under the weight of such enormous head-coverings; but what will not English hearts endure for the good of their country? And it's all for the good of their country the ladies wear such appearances; for, while mankind are such enemies to Old England as to run wool to France, our ladies, by making use of wool as part of their head-dresses [_lets down the tail and takes out the wool_], keep it at home, and encourage the woollen manufactory. [_Takes off the head._] But, as all our fashions descend to our inferiors, a servant maid, in the Peak of Derbyshire, having purchased an old tête from a puppet-show woman, and being at a loss for some of this wool to stuff out the curls with, fancied a whisp of hay might {55}do. [_Takes the head._] Here is the servant maid, with her new-purchased finery; and here is her new-fashioned stuffing. But, before she had finished at her garret dressing-table, a ring at the door called her down stairs to receive a letter from the postboy; turning back to go into the house again, the postboy's horse, being hungry, laid hold of the head-dress by way of forage. Never may the fair sex meet with a worse misfortune; but may the ladies, always hereafter, preserve their heads in good order. Amen. Horace, in describing a fine woman, makes use of two Latin words, which are, _simplex munditiis_. Now these two words cannot be properly translated; {56}their best
ford Pim, Finding the _Investigator_ Back’s Great Fish River 217 Esquimaux Catching Seals 220 A Natural Arch in the Arctic Regions 221 Captain (afterwards Sir Leopold) M’Clintock 224 An Esquimaux Sledge and Team of Dogs _To face page_ 225 Cape York, Melville Bay 228 Relics brought back by the Franklin Search Expedition 229 Whale Sound, Greenland 233 Dr. Kane 236 Morton Discovers the Open Sea 241 Esquimaux Snow Houses 244 Kalutunah 245 Cape Alexander, Greenland 249 The Home of the Eider Duck 252 Godhavn, a Danish Settlement in Disco Island, Greenland The Schooner, _United States_, at Port Foulke 256 The House of the _Hansa_ on the Ice _To face page_ 260 A Young Bear chained to an Anchor 261 The Sun at Midnight in the Arctic Regions 264 The Funeral of Captain Hall 269 Start of Lieutenant Payer’s Sledge Expedition 272 Fall of the Sledge into a Crevasse 273 View of Cape Horn 277 Lisbon in the 16th Century 281 Bartholomew Diaz on his Voyage to the Cape 284 Christopher Columbus 285 Caravels of Columbus 288 Columbus’s First Sight of Land 289 Discovery of the Isle of Spain 292 Reception of Columbus by Ferdinand and Isabella _To face page_ 293 Ancient Gold-washing at St. Domingo 293 Columbus under Arrest 297 View of Calicut in the 15th Century 300 Vasco da Gama 301 Ojeda’s Attempted Escape 305 The Death of La Cosa 309 Arrival of Ojeda and his Followers at the Indian 312 Village Ferdinand de Magellan 317 [Illustration] THE SEA. CHAPTER I. THE PIRATES AND BUCANIERS. Who was the First Pirate?—The Society of Bucaniers—Home of the Freebooters—Rise of the Band—Impecunious Spanish Governors and their Roguery—Great Capture of Spanish Treasure—An Unjust Seizure, but no Redress—Esquemeling’s Narrative—Voyage from Havre—“Baptism” of the French Mariners—Other Ceremonies—At Tortuga—Occupied and re-occupied by French and Spanish—The French West India Company—Esquemeling twice sold as a Slave—He joins the Society of Pirates—Wild Boars and Savage Mastiffs—How the Wild Dogs came to the Islands—Cruelty of the Planters—A Terrible Case of Retribution—The Murderer of a Hundred Slaves—The First Tortugan Pirate—Pierre le Grand—A Desperate Attack—Rich Prize taken—Rapid Spread of Piracy—How the Rovers armed their Ships—Regulations of their Voyages—“No Prey, no Pay”—The richly-laden Vessels of New Spain—The Pearl Fisheries—An Enterprising Pirate—Success and Failure—His Final Surrender. Who was the first pirate is a question easier to ask than to answer. We may be sure, however, that not long after navigation had become a recognised art the opportunities for robbery on the sea produced a breed of “water-rats,” who infested the ocean, and were the terror of the honest shipowner. That “hardy Norseman,” of whom we sing so pleasantly, was in very truth nothing better; while some of the great names among the mariners of the middle ages are, practically, those of pirates, whose occupation bore the stamp of semi-legality from royal sanction, directly given or implied. But the society of pirates, of which the following chapters will furnish some account, was, _sui generis_, the greatest on record, and was formidable even to the great Powers of Europe. “It preserved itself distinct from all the more regular and civilised classes of mankind, in defiance of the laws and constitutions by which other nations and societies were governed. In their history we find a perpetual mixture of justice and cruelty, fair retaliation and brutal revenge, of rebellion and subordination, of wise laws and desperate passions, such as no other confederacy ever exhibited, and which kept them together as a body, until the loss of their bravest and best leaders, who could not be replaced, obliged them to return to the more peaceable arts of life, and again to mix with nations governed by law and discipline.”(1) The origin of the term _bucaneer_, or _bucanier_, is not to be very easily traced; it has an allusion to those who dried the flesh of wild cattle and fish after the manner of the Indians, and was first applied to the French settlers of St. Domingo, who had at first no other employment than that of hunting bulls or wild boars, in order to sell their hides or flesh. Many of them subsequently became pirates, and the term was permanently applied to them. The West Indies, for good reason, were long the especial home of the freebooters. They abounded—as indeed they still abound—in little uninhabited islands and “keys,” _i.e._, low sandy islands, appearing a little distance above the surface of the water, with only a few bushes or grass upon them. These islands have any quantity of harbours, convenient for cleansing and provisioning vessels. Water and sea fowl, turtle and turtle eggs, shell and other fish, were abundant. The pirates would, provided they had plenty of strong liquor, want for nothing as regards indulgence; and in these secluded nooks they often held high revel, whilst many of them became the hiding-places for their ill-gotten treasures. From them they could dart out on the richly-laden ships of Spain, France, or England; while men-of-war found it difficult to pursue them among the archipelago of islands, sand-banks, and shallows. The rise of these rovers, or at least the great increase of them in the West Indies, was very much due to the impecunious Spanish governors—hungry courtiers, who would stick at no peculation or dishonesty that could enrich them. They granted commissions—practically letters of marque—to great numbers of vessels of war, on pretence of preventing interlopers from interfering with their trade, with orders to seize all ships and vessels whatsoever within five leagues of their coasts. If the Spanish captains exceeded their privileges, the victims had an opportunity of redress in the Spanish courts, but generally found, to their sorrow, that delays and costs swallowed up anything they might recover. The frequent losses sustained by English merchants during the latter half of the seventeenth century led to serious reprisals in after years; a prominent example occurred in 1716. About two years previously, the Spanish galleons, or plate fleet, had been cast away in the Gulf of Florida, and several vessels from the Havannah (Cuba) had been at work with diving apparatus to fish up the lost treasure. The Spaniards had recovered some millions of dollars, and had carried it to the Havannah; but they had some 350,000 pieces on the spot, and were daily taking out more. In the meantime, two ships and three sloops, fitted out from Jamaica, Barbadoes, &c., under Captain Henry Jennings, sailed to the gulf, and found the Spaniards then upon the wreck, the silver before mentioned being deposited on shore in a storehouse, under a guard. The rovers surprised the place, landing 300 men, and seized the treasure, which they carried off to Jamaica. On their way they fell in with a richly-laden Spanish ship, bound for the Havannah, having on board bales of cochineal, casks of indigo, 60,000 pieces of silver, and other valuable cargo, “which,” says the chronicler, “their hand being in, they took,” and having rifled the vessel, let her go. They went away to Jamaica with their booty, and were followed in view of the port by the Spaniards, who, having seen them thither, went back to the Governor of the Havannah with their complaints. He immediately sent a vessel to the Governor of Jamaica, making representations as regards this robbery, and claiming the goods. As it was in a time of peace, and contrary to all justice and right that this piracy had been committed, the Governor of Jamaica could do nothing else but order their punishment. They, however, escaped to sea again, but not until they had disposed of their cargo to good advantage; and being thus made desperate, they turned pirates, robbing not the Spaniards only, but the vessels of any nation they met. They were joined by other desperadoes, notably by a gang of logwood cutters from the Bays of Campechy and Honduras. The Spaniards had attacked them and carried off the logwood, but had humanely given them three sloops to carry them home. But the men thought they could do better in piracy, and joined the before-mentioned rovers. And now to one of the historians, Joseph Esquemeling, whose record is incorporated in the work on which these pages are founded, and who was afterwards in company with such noted pirates as Lolonois, Pierre le Grand, Roche Brasiliano, and others. He says:— “Not to detain the reader any longer with these particulars, I shall proceed to give an account of our voyage from Havre de Grâce in France, from whence we set sail, in a ship called _St. John_, May the 2nd, 1666. Our vessel was equipped with twenty-eight guns, twenty marines, and two hundred and twenty passengers, including those whom the Company sent as free passengers. Soon after we came to an anchor under the Cape of Barfleur, there to join seven other ships of the same West India Company which were to come from Dieppe, under convoy of a man-of-war, mounted with thirty-seven guns and two hundred and fifty men. Of these ships two were bound for Senegal, five for the Caribbee Islands, and ours for Tortuga. Here gathered to us about twenty sail of other ships, bound for Newfoundland, with some Dutch vessels going for Nantz, Rochelle, and St. Martin’s, so that in all we made thirty sail. Here we put ourselves in a posture of defence, having notice that four English frigates, of sixty guns each, waited for us near Alderney. Our admiral, the Chevalier Sourdis, having given necessary orders, we sailed thence with a favourable gale, and some mists arising, totally impeded the English frigates from discovering our fleet. We steered our course as near as we could to the coast of France, for fear of the enemy. As we sailed along, we met a vessel of Ostend, who complained to our admiral that a French privateer had robbed him that very morning, whereupon we endeavoured to pursue the said pirate; but our labour was in vain, not being able to overtake him. [Illustration: PIRATE VESSELS (17TH CENTURY).] “Our fleet, as we sailed, caused no small fears and alarms to the inhabitants of the coasts of France, these judging us to be English, and that we sought some convenient place for landing. To allay their fright we hung out our colours, but they would not trust us. After this we came to an anchor in the Bay of Conquet, in Brittany, near Ushant, there to take in water. Having stored ourselves with fresh provisions here, we prosecuted our voyage, designing to pass by the Pas of Fontenau, and not expose ourselves to the Sorlingues, fearing the English that were cruising thereabouts. The river Pas is of a current very strong and rapid, which, rolling over many rocks, disgorges itself into the sea on the coast of France, in 48 deg. 10 min. latitude, so that this passage is very dangerous, all the rocks as yet not being thoroughly known.” Esquemeling mentions the ceremony which, at this passage and some other places, was used by mariners, and by them called “baptism.” The master’s mate clothed himself with a ridiculous sort of garment which reached to his feet, and put on his head a comically constructed cap, made very burlesque; in his right hand he had a naked wooden sword, and in his left a pot full of ink. His face was horribly blacked with soot, and his neck adorned with a collar of many little pieces of wood. Thus apparelled he ordered every one to be called who had never passed through that dangerous place before, and then, causing them to kneel down, he made the sign of the cross on their forehead with ink, and gave every one a stroke on the shoulder with his wooden sword. Meanwhile, the standers-by threw a bucket of water over each man’s head, and so ended the ceremony. But that done, each of the baptised was obliged to give a bottle of brandy, placing it near the mainmast, without speaking a word. If the vessel never passed that way before, the captain was compelled to distribute some wine amongst the mariners and passengers; other gifts, which the newly baptised frequently offered, were divided among the old seamen, and of them they made a banquet among themselves. “The Hollanders likewise, not only at this passage, but also at the rocks called Berlingues, nigh the coast of Portugal, in 39 deg. 40 min. (being a passage very dangerous, especially by night, when in the dark the rocks are not distinguishable, the land being very high), they use some such ceremony; but their manner of baptising is very different to that of the French, for he that is to be baptised is fastened and hoisted up thrice at the mainyard’s end, as if he were a criminal. If he be hoisted the fourth time, in the name of the Prince of Orange or of the captain of the vessel, his honour is more than ordinary. Thus every one is dipped several times in the main ocean, but he that is dipped first has the honour of being saluted with a gun. Such as are not willing to fall must pay twelve pence for ransom; if he be an officer, two shillings; and if a passenger, at their own pleasure. If the ship never passed that way before, the captain is to give a small rundlet of wine, which, if he denies, the mariners may cut off the stern of the vessel. All the profit accruing by this ceremony is kept by the master’s mate, who, after reaching their port, usually laid it out in wine, which was drunk amongst the ancient seamen. Some say that this ceremony was instituted by the Emperor Charles V., though it is not amongst his laws.” After recording some similar ceremonies, we find Esquemeling at Tortuga, their desired port, where they landed the goods belonging to the West India Company. Our chronicler, after describing the abundant fruits and fine trees, the flocks of wild pigeons and abundance of turtle—from which the island derives its name, being supposed to resemble one in the general outline of its coasts—speaks of the multitudes of large crabs, both of land and sea. “These,” naïvely says the narrator, “are good to feed servants and slaves, whose palates they please, but are very hurtful to the sight; besides, being eaten too often they cause great giddiness in the head, with much weakness of the brain, so that very frequently they are deprived of sight for a quarter of an hour.” The French, having settled on the Isle of St. Christopher, planted there some large trees, of which they built long boats, and in which they proceeded to discover neighbouring islands. They first reached Hispaniola, where they landed, and found large quantities of cattle, horses, and wild boars, but did not stop there, as there was already a considerable colony of Spaniards. They proceeded to the neighbouring island of Tortuga, which they seized without difficulty, there being not more than ten or twelve Spaniards in possession. The French were afterwards obliged to abandon it. In 1664 it was occupied by the West India Company of France, who sent thither Monsieur Ogeron as governor. The company expected considerable trade, and even went so far as to give a large amount of trust both to the pirates and to traders. This, as might be expected, did not answer, and they had to resort to force of arms in order to collect some of their payments. To make a long story short, the Company eventually recalled their factors, and sold the servants as slaves. On this occasion Esquemeling was also sold, being a servant of the said Company, and received very hard usage from his first master, the lieutenant-general of the island. Fortunately for himself, he fell sick, and his master, fearing to lose him altogether, sold him cheaply to a surgeon, who treated him humanely, and he soon recovered his health. After having served him one year, he was offered his liberty on a promise to pay a ransom when he was in a position to do so. “Being,” says the chronicler, “now at liberty, though like Adam when he was just created—that is, naked and destitute of all human necessaries—not knowing how to get my living, I determined to enter into the order of pirates or robbers at sea. Into this society I was received with common consent, both of the superior and vulgar sort, where I continued till 1672. Having assisted them in all their designs and attempts, and served them in many notable exploits, I returned to my own native country.” After some very graphic descriptions of the alligators and other animals, he gives some interesting particulars respecting the numerous wild mastiffs and boars of the island, the former of which were introduced by the bucaniers. He says:— “The Governor of Tortuga, Monsieur Ogeron, finding that the wild dogs killed so many of the wild boars that the hunters of that island had much ado to find any, fearing lest that common sustenance of the island should fail, sent for a great quantity of poison from France to destroy the wild mastiffs. This was done anno 1668, by commanding horses to be killed and empoisoned, and laid open at certain places where the wild dogs used to resort. This being continued for six months, there were killed an incredible number; and yet all this could not exterminate and destroy the race, or scarce diminish them, their number appearing almost as large as before. These wild dogs are easily tamed among men, even as tame as ordinary house-dogs. The hunters of those parts, whenever they find a wild bitch with whelps, commonly take away the puppies and bring them home, which, being grown up, they hunt much better than other dogs. “But here the curious reader may perhaps inquire how so many wild dogs came here. The occasion was, the Spaniards having possessed these isles, found them peopled with Indians—a barbarous people, sensual and brutish, hating all labour, and only inclined to killing and making war against their neighbours: not out of ambition, but only because they agreed not with themselves in some common terms of language; and perceiving the dominion of the Spaniards laid great restrictions upon their lazy and brutish customs, they conceived an irreconcilable hatred against them, but especially because they saw them take possession of their kingdoms and dominions. Hereupon they made against them all the resistance they could, opposing everywhere their designs to the utmost; and the Spaniards, finding themselves cruelly hated by the Indians, and nowhere secure from their treacheries, resolved to extirpate and ruin them, since they could neither tame them by civility nor conquer them with the sword. But the Indians—it being their custom to make the woods their chief places of defence—at present made these their refuge whenever they fled from the Spaniards. Hereupon, those first conquerors of the new world made use of dogs to range and search the intricatest thickets of woods and forests for those their implacable and unconquerable enemies; thus they forced them to leave their old refuge, and submit to the sword, seeing no milder usage would do it; hereupon they killed some of them, and, quartering their bodies, placed them in the highways, that others might take warning from such a punishment. But this severity proved of ill consequence, for instead of frighting them and reducing them to civility, they conceived such horror of the Spaniards that they resolved to detest and fly their sight for ever; hence the greatest part died in caves and subterraneous places of the woods and mountains, in which places I myself have often seen great numbers of human bones. The Spaniards, finding no more Indians to appear about the woods, turned away a great number of dogs they had in their houses, and they, finding no masters to keep them, betook themselves to the woods and fields to hunt for food to preserve their lives; thus by degrees they became unacquainted with houses, and grew wild. This is the truest account I can give of the multitudes of wild dogs in these parts. “But besides these wild mastiffs, here are also great numbers of wild horses everywhere all over the island; they are but low of stature, short-bodied, with great heads, long necks, and big or thick legs: in a word, they have nothing handsome in their shape. They run up and down commonly in troops of 200 or 300 together, one going always before to lead the multitude. When they meet any person travelling through the woods or fields, they stand still, suffering him to approach until he can almost touch them, and then, suddenly starting, they betake themselves to flight, running away as fast as they can. The hunters catch them only for their skins, though sometimes they preserve their flesh likewise, which they harden with smoke, using it for provisions when they go to sea. “Here would be also wild bulls and cows in great number, if by continual hunting they were not much diminished; yet considerable profit is made to this day by such as make it their business to kill them. The wild bulls are of a vast bigness of body, and yet they hurt not any one except they be exasperated. Their bodies are from eleven to thirteen feet long.” The cruelty of many of the planters to their slaves, some of whom were kidnapped Europeans, was revolting. A terrible case is that of one of them who had behaved so brutally to a servant that the latter ran away; after having taken refuge in the woods for some days, he was captured, and brought back to the wicked Pharaoh. No sooner had he got him than he commanded him to be tied to a tree, where he gave him so many lashes on his back that his body ran with an entire stream of blood. Then, to make the smart of his wounds the greater, he anointed him with lemon-juice mixed with salt and pepper. In this miserable posture he left him tied to the tree for four-and-twenty hours, after which he began his punishment again, lashing him again so cruelly that the miserable wretch gave up the ghost, with these dying words:—“I beseech the Almighty God, creator of heaven and earth, that He permit the wicked spirit to make thee feel as many torments before thy death as thou hast caused me to feel before mine!” The sequel is worthy the attention of those who believe in earthly retribution. “Scarce three or four days were past after this horrible fact when the Almighty Judge, who had heard the cries of that tormented wretch, suffered the evil one suddenly to possess this barbarous and inhuman homicide, so that those cruel bonds which had punished to death his innocent servant were the tormentors of his own body; for he beat himself and tore his own flesh after a miserable manner till he lost the very shape of a man, not ceasing to howl and cry without any rest by day or night. Thus he continued raving mad till he died. Many other examples of this kind I could rehearse. The planters of the Caribbee Islands are rather worse and more cruel to their servants than the former. In the Isle of St. Christopher a planter was known to have killed above a hundred of his slaves with blows and stripes.” And, if Esquemeling is to be believed, the English planters of the period were little better. [Illustration: PIERRE LE GRAND TAKING THE SPANISH VESSEL.] The first pirate of Tortuga was Pierre le Grand, or Peter the Great. He was born at Dieppe, in Normandy. The action which rendered him famous was his taking the vice-admiral’s ship of the Spanish fleet, near the Cape of Tiburon, on the west side of Hispaniola; this he performed with only one boat and twenty-eight men. Until that time the Spaniards had passed and re-passed with all security through the channel of Bahama; so that Pierre le Grand, setting out to sea by the Caycos, took this grand ship with all the ease imaginable. The Spaniards found aboard were set ashore, and the vessel was sent to France. “The manner how this undaunted spirit attempted and took this large ship,” says the narrator, “I shall give you out of the journal of the author in his own words, ‘The boat,’ says he, ‘wherein Pierre le Grand was with his companions had been at sea a long time without finding any prize worth his taking, and their provisions beginning to fail, they were in danger of starving. Being almost reduced to despair, they spied a great ship of the Spanish flota separated from the rest; this vessel they resolved to take, or die in the attempt. Hereupon they sailed towards her to view her strength. And though they judged the vessel to be superior to theirs, yet their covetousness and the extremity they were reduced to made them venture. Being come so near that they could not possibly escape, they made an oath to their captain, Pierre le Grand, to stand by him to the last. ’Tis true, the pirates did believe they should find the ship unprovided to fight, and therefore the sooner master her. It was in the dusk of the evening they began to attack; but before they engaged they ordered the surgeon of the boat to bore a hole in the sides of it, that their own vessel sinking under them, they might be compelled to attack more vigorously, and endeavour more hastily to board the ship. This was done accordingly; and without any other arms than a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, they immediately climbed up the sides of the ship, and ran altogether into the great cabin, where they found the captain, with several of his companions, playing at cards. Here they set a pistol to his breast, commanding him to deliver up the ship. The Spaniards, surprised to see the pirates on board their ship, cried, “Jesus, bless us! Are these devils, or what are they?” Meanwhile some of them took possession of the gun-room, and seized the arms, killing as many as made any opposition; whereupon the Spaniards presently surrendered. That very day the captain of the ship had been told by some of the seamen that the boat which was in view cruising was a boat of pirates, whom the captain slightly answered, “What, then, must I be afraid of such a pitiful thing as that is? No! though she were a ship as big and as strong as mine is.” As soon as Pierre le Grand had taken this rich prize, he detained in his service as many of the common seamen as he had need of, setting the rest ashore, and then set sail for France, where he continued without ever returning to America again.’” The planters and hunters of Tortuga had no sooner heard of the rich prize those pirates had taken than they resolved to follow their example. Many of them left their employments, and endeavoured to get some small boats wherein to exercise piracy; but not being able to purchase or build them in Tortuga, they set out in their canoes, and sought them elsewhere. With these they cruised at first upon Cape de Alvarez, where the Spaniards used to trade from one city to another in small vessels, in which they carried hides, tobacco, and other commodities to the Havannah, and to which the Spaniards from Europe frequently resorted. Here it was that those pirates at first took a great many boats laden with the before-mentioned commodities; these they used to carry to Tortuga, and sell the whole purchase to the vessels that waited for their return or accidentally happened to be there. With the gains of these prizes they provided themselves with necessaries wherewith to undertake other voyages, some of which were made to Campechy, and others toward Hispaniola, in both which the Spaniards then drove a good trade. Upon those coasts they found great numbers of trading vessels, and often ships of great burden. Two of the biggest of these vessels, and two great ships which the Spaniards had laden with plate in the port of Campechy to go to the Caraccas, they took in less than a month’s time, and carried to Tortuga, when the people of the whole island, encouraged by their success—especially seeing in two years the riches of the country so much increased—they augmented the number of freebooters so fast, that in a little time there were in that small island and port above twenty pirate-ships. The Spaniards, not able to bear their robberies any longer, equipped two large men-of-war, both for the defence of their own coasts and to cruise upon the enemy’s. We shall see the result. Before the pirates went to sea they gave notice to all concerned of the day on which they were to embark, obliging each man to bring as many pounds of powder and ball as they thought necessary. Being all come aboard, they consulted as to where to get provisions, especially flesh, seeing they scarcely used anything else: this was ordinarily pork and tortoise, which they salted a little; sometimes they robbed the hog-yards, where the Spaniards often had a thousand head of swine together. They approached these places in the night, and having beset the keeper’s lodge, would force him to rise and give them as many head as they desired, threatening to kill him if he refused or made any noise; and these menaces were oftentimes executed on the miserable swine-keepers or any other person that endeavoured to hinder their robberies. Having got flesh sufficient for their voyage, they returned to the ship. Here every one was allowed, twice a day, as much as he could eat, without weight or measure; nor did the steward of the vessel give any more flesh, nor anything else, to the captain than to the meanest mariner. “The ship being well victualled, they would deliberate whether they should go to seek their desperate fortunes, and likewise agree upon certain articles, which were put in writing, which every one was bound to observe; and all of them, or the chiefest part, set their hands to it. Here they set down distinctly what sums of money each particular person ought to have for that voyage, the fund of all the payments being what was netted by the whole expedition, for otherwise it was the same law among these people as other pirates—‘No prey, no pay.’ First, therefore, they calculated how much the captain was to have for his ship; next the salary of the carpenter or shipwright who careened, mended, and rigged the vessel; this commonly amounted to one hundred or one hundred and fifty pieces of eight,(2) according to the agreement. Afterwards, for provisions and victualling, they drew out of the same common stock about two hundred pieces of eight; also a salary for the surgeon and his medicine chest, which usually is rated at two hundred or two hundred and fifty pieces of eight. Lastly, they agreed what rate each one ought to have that was either wounded or maimed in his body, or should suffer the loss of any limb: as, for the loss of a right arm, six hundred pieces of eight, or six slaves; for the left arm, five hundred pieces of eight, or five slaves; for a right leg, five hundred pieces of eight, or five slaves; for the left leg, four hundred pieces of eight, or four slaves; for an eye, one hundred pieces of eight, or one slave; for a finger, the same as for an eye: all which sums were taken out of the common stock of what was gathered by their piracy, and a very exact and equal dividend was made of the remainder. They had also regard to qualities and places; thus, the captain or chief was allotted five or six portions to what the ordinary seamen had, the master’s mate only two, and other officers proportionately to their employ; after which they drew equal parts, from the highest to the lowest mariner, the boys not being omitted, who drew a half share, because when they take a better vessel than their own it was the boys’ duty to fire the former vessel, and then retire to the prize.” They observed among themselves very good order; for in the prizes which they took it was severely prohibited to any one to take anything for themselves; hence all they got was equally divided. They took a solemn oath to each other not to conceal the least thing they might find among the prizes; and if any one was found false to his oath he was immediately turned out of the society. They were very kind and charitable to each other, so that if any one wanted what another had, he was immediately supplied. As soon as these pirates had taken a prize, they immediately set ashore the prisoners, detaining only some few for their own help and service, whom also they released after two or three years. They refreshed themselves at one island or another, but especially at those on the south of Cuba; here they careened their vessels, while some went hunting, and others cruised in canoes for prizes. They often took the poor turtle fishermen, and made them work during their pleasure. [Illustration: PIERRE FRANÇOIS ATTACKING THE _VICE-ADMIRAL_.] The inhabitants of New Spain and Campechy were wont to lade their best merchandise in ships of great bulk; the vessels from Campechy sailed in the winter to Caraccas, the Trinity Isles, and that of Margarita, and returned back again in the summer. The pirates, knowing these seasons (and thoroughly alive to the situation), always cruised between the places above-mentioned; but in case they lighted on no considerable booty, commonly undertook some more hazardous enterprise; “one remarkable instance of which,” says our chronicler, “I shall here give you. A certain pirate, called Pierre François, or Peter Francis, waiting a long time at sea with his boat and twenty-six men for the ships that were to return from Maracaibo to Campechy, and not being able to find any prey, at last he resolved to direct his course to Rancheiras, near the River de la Plata, in 12½° north latitude. Here lies a rich bank of pearl, to the fishery whereof they yearly sent from Carthagena twelve vessels, with a man-of-war for their defence. Every vessel has at least two negroes, who are very dexterous in diving to the depth of six fathoms, where they find good store of pearls. On this fleet, called the Pearl Fleet, Pierre François resolved to venture rather than go home empty. They then rode at anchor at the mouth of the River de la Hacha, the man-of-war scarce half a league distant from the small ships, and the wind very calm. Having spied them in this posture, he presently pulled down his sails and rowed along the coast, feigning to be a Spanish vessel coming from Maracaibo; but no sooner was he come to the pearl-bank, when suddenly he assaulted the _Vice-Admiral_, of eighty guns and sixty men, commanding them
an account of a highway robbery of mail bags, which occurred in Yorkshire in the year 1798, and which shows that the change in the way of conveying the mails was not commenced before it was wanted. The following letter from the Post-office in York, gives a full and graphic account of the circumstance. "POST-OFFICE, YORK, _February 22nd, 1798_. "SIR,--I am sorry to acquaint you that the post-boy coming from Selby to this city, was robbed of his mail, between six and seven o'clock this evening. About three miles this side Selby, he was accosted by a man on foot with a gun in his hand, who asked him if he was the post-boy, and at the same time seizing hold of the bridle. Without waiting for any answer, he told the boy he must immediately unstrap the mail and give it to him, pointing the muzzle of the gun at him whilst he did it. When he had given up the mail, the boy begged he would not hurt him, to which the man replied, 'He need not be afraid,' and at the same time pulled the bridle from the horse's head. The horse immediately galloped off with the boy who had never dismounted. He was a stout man dressed in a drab jacket and had the appearance of a heckler. The boy was too much frightened to make any other remark upon his person, and says he was totally unknown to him. "The mail contained bags for Howden and London, Howden and York, and Selby and York. I have informed the surveyors of the robbery, and have forwarded handbills this night to be distributed in the country, and will take care to insert it in the first paper published here. Waiting your further instructions, I remain with respect, Sir, "Your Obliged and Obedient Humble Servant, "THOS. OLDFIELD." Although two hundred pounds' reward was offered nothing more was ever found out about this transaction for about eighty years, when the missing bag was discovered in a very unexpected manner, which is so well described in a notice contained in the _Daily Telegraph_ newspaper of August 24th, 1876, that I cannot do better than give their account. After describing the nature of the robbery it goes on to say, "So the matter rested for nearly eighty years, and it would probably have been altogether forgotten but for a strange discovery which was made a few days ago. As an old wayside public-house, standing by the side of the high road near Selby, in a district known as Churchhill, was being pulled down, the workmen found in the roof a worn and rotten coat, a southwester hat, and a mail bag marked Selby. This led to further search, and we are told that in digging fresh foundations on the site of the old hostel, a large number of skeletons were found, buried at a small distance beneath the surface. There can be no doubt that in what were affectionately known as 'good old times,' strange scenes occurred at road-side inns, especially on the great roads running north and west from London. The highwaymen of those days were a sort of local Robin Hood, and were only too often on best of terms with the innkeepers. Nothing, indeed, is more likely than for the relic of the highwayman's plunder to be brought to light from out of the mouldering thatch of an old wayside inn. The unearthing of the skeletons is a more serious matter, and looks as if the Selby hostel had, as many old houses have, a dark history of its own." The existence of the skeletons was, however, accounted for by archæologists in a more natural, if less sensational manner. They arrived at the conclusion that the spot had been the site of a very old Christian burial ground, whence called Churchhill; and this opinion would appear to be borne out by the fact of the skeletons having been encased in a very primitive sort of coffin, consisting of nothing more than the trunk of a tree, which had been sawn asunder and hollowed out to receive the body, the two halves being afterwards closed together again. If they had been the victims of foul play, they would probably have been buried without any coffins at all. The old mail bag, after some dispute about ownership, came into the possession of the Post-Office, and is to be seen in the library of that establishment at the present time. Like all other new inventions, the change in the manner of conveying the mails was not without its adversaries, and among the different objections raised one was that it would lead to bloodshed. These objectors, who were, I suppose, the humanitarians of the day, grounded their argument on the fact that the post-boys were so helplessly in the power of the highwaymen, that they made no attempt to defend the property in their charge, but only thought of saving their own lives and limbs; and it is clearly shown by the case adduced that this is what did happen upon such meetings, and small blame to the boys either. But they went on to prophesy, which is not a safe thing to do. They said that when the bags were in the charge of two men, coachman and guard, well armed, they would be obliged to show fight, which would lead to carnage. It was rather a Quaker sort of argument, but, perhaps, it was "Friends" who employed it. Possibly the change did not all at once put a stop to the attentions of the gentlemen of the road, but as I have not found in the archives at the General Post-Office--which are very complete--any records of an attack upon the mail coaches, we may infer that none of any moment did occur. At any rate, the scheme seems to have met with popular approval, judging by two cuttings I have seen from newspapers of the period, which I introduce as conveying the public opinion of the time. The first is dated January 19th, 1784, and says, "Within these last few days Ministers have had several meetings with the Postmaster-General, Secretary, and other officers of the General Post-Office, on the subject of the regulation of mails, which is to make a branch of the Budget this year. It is proposed that instead of the mail-cart, there shall be established carriages in the nature of stage coaches, in the boot of which the mail shall be carried, and in the inside four passengers. The advantages proposed from this regulation are various. The passengers will defray the whole expense of the conveyance. The progress of the post will be considerably quicker, as the coach is to wait but a certain time in every place, and the time to be marked on the messenger's express, that there be no intermediate delay. The parcels which are now transmitted from one place to another by the common stage coaches and diligences, to the injury of the revenue, will by a restriction be confined to the mail coaches, and, indeed, the public will prefer the security of the General Post-Office to that of the private man; for the same reason of safety, persons will prefer travelling in these carriages, as measures are to be taken to prevent robbery. The plan is expected to produce a great deal of money, as well as to afford facility and security to correspondence. It will give a decisive blow to the common stages, and in so far will hurt the late tax, but that loss will be amply recompensed. The plan is the production of Mr. Palmer, manager of the Bath Theatre, and he has been present at the conference on the subject." The other cutting is of the same year, and says: "A scheme is on foot, and will be put in execution on Monday se'ennight, to send by a post coach from the Post-office at eight o'clock in the evening, letters for Bath, Bristol, Bradford, Calne, Chippenham, Colnbrook, Devizes, Henley, Hounslow, Maidenhead, Marlborough, Melksham, Nettlebed, Newbury, Ramsbury, Reading, Trowbridge, Wallingford, and Windsor. The coach is also to carry passengers." As will be seen from these extracts the Post-office must have made a very good bargain, as they only paid one penny a mile to the horse contractors, which must have been considerably less than the cost of the boys, carts, and horses. Who found the coaches is not stated, but, in later years, though contracted for by the Post-office, they were paid for by the coach proprietors. At any rate, the fares paid by the passengers, of whom only four were carried, must have been very high, for the coach had to pay to the exchequer a mileage duty of one penny, thereby taking away all that was given by the Post-office for the conveyance of the letters. There are no records to show in what order of rotation the different mail coaches came into existence; but I know that the one to Shrewsbury commenced running in 1785, and many others must have been put on the roads about that time, as I find that in 1786, no less than twenty left London every evening, besides seven that were at work in different parts of England. The work, however, appears to have, been very imperfectly performed. The coaches must at first have been cumbersome. In the year 1786, the coach to Norwich, _viâ_ Newmarket, weighed 21 cwt. 2 qrs., and one to the same place, _viâ_ Colchester, weighed 18 cwt., which, however, must have been well constructed, as those coaches were known to have carried as many as twenty-two passengers. There was also what was called a caravan, or three-bodied coach, _via_ Ipswich, carrying twelve inside, weighing 21 cwt. 3 qrs., and is stated to have followed the horses very well indeed. In November, 1786, Bezant's patent coach was first submitted to the post-office, and was first used on the coach roads in the spring of 1787. Previously the mail coaches were very heavy and badly constructed, and made of such inferior materials that accidents were general and of daily occurrence, so much so that the public became afraid to venture their lives in them. The general establishment of mail coaches took place in the spring of 1788. The terms on which Mr. Bezant, the patentee of the patent coaches supplied then, was that he engaged to provide and keep them in constant and thorough repair at two pence halfpenny the double mile. At first, from want of system, these coaches were often sent on their journeys without being greased, and generally even without being washed and cleaned, with the result that seldom a day passed that a coach wheel did not fire. As the business became more and more matured, spare coaches were put on the roads, so that each one on arriving in London should have two complete days for repair. This increased the number of coaches to nearly double. As each came into London it was sent to the factory at Millbank, nearly five miles off, to be cleaned, greased, and examined, for which the charge of one shilling was to be paid for each coach, and this price included the drawing of the coach to Millbank and back. Before this arrangement was made, it was nothing unusual for passengers to be kept waiting for a couple of hours, whilst some repairs were being done, which were only discovered to be necessary just as the coach was about to start, and then the work was naturally done in such a hasty manner that the coach started in far from good condition. The coach masters objected to this payment of one shilling for drawing and cleaning, and stated that if it was enforced they would require threepence per mile instead of one penny, which would have made a difference of twenty thousand pounds a year to the post-office revenue. In the end an agreement was made with the patentee, and the post-office paid the bills. In 1791, Mr. Bezant, who was an engineer from Henley-on-Thames, died, and the business fell into the hands of Mr. Vidler, his partner, and in the following year there were one hundred and twenty of those coaches in use on the mail roads. Their weight was from 16 cwt. to 16 cwt. 2 qrs. I have not been able to find any time-bills for this early stage of the work, and do not, therefore, know at what pace the mail coaches were expected to travel, but, judging from the rather unique instruction issued to a guard in the year 1796, great pace on the road was not desired. Perhaps, however, this omission is not important, as the time of arrival at the journey's end must have depended very much upon how many accidents were experienced on the road. It reminds me of the coachman on the Dover road, who, on being asked by a passenger what time he arrived in London, replied, "That the proper hour was six o'clock, but that he had been every hour of the four-and-twenty after it." INSTRUCTIONS TO A GUARD GIVEN IN 1796. "You remember you are to go down with the coach to Weymouth, and come up with the last Tuesday afternoon. Take care that they do not drive fast, make long stops or get drunk. I have told you this all before." The following letter addressed in the same year to one of the horse contractors throws some light upon the way in which the work was done. "Some time since, hearing that your harness was in a very unfit state to do duty, I sent you a set, as is the custom of the office to supply contractors whose harness and reins are bad, when they do not attend to the representatives of the office. The harness cost fourteen guineas, but, as they had been used a few times with the 'King's Royal,' Weymouth, you will only be charged twelve for them." Who would have supposed that from so unpromising a beginning there should have developed the most perfect system of road travelling which the world has ever seen? Verily, it goes to prove the truth of the old adage that "practice makes perfect." This same year, on 11th May, the Liverpool and Hull mail coach was stopped by a pressgang outside Liverpool. A rather serious affray took place, but no mischief was done. The Mayor of Liverpool was communicated with, and asked to give such instructions to the lieutenant of the gang as would prevent any further molestation. Probably, the pressgang saw some passengers on the mail which they supposed to be seafaring men, but it goes to show that the relative positions and rights of the different branches of His Majesty's service were not well understood. However this might have been, it appears that the guards and coachmen of the mails were capable of exerting their rights of free passage along the road to, at least, their full extent. In July, 1796, three gentlemen were riding on horseback, when the Liverpool and Manchester mail coach came up behind them. It would appear that they did not attempt to get out of the way, whereupon the coachman is stated to have used his whip to one of them, and the guard pulled another off his horse, and then brought out his firearm, and threatened to shoot them. According to the guard's statement the gentleman, without speaking a word, stopped the horses of the coach by laying hold of the reins, and nearly overturned it. The coachman flogged the gentleman and his horse; the guard got down and begged them to be off, and when they were going to strike him he threatened to shoot them, upon which they let them go. After a full inquiry from passengers, etc., it was found that the guard's statement was false, and he was instantly dismissed, as was also the coachman. From the following instructions given in 1796, to a contractor, asking how the coachman should act under certain circumstances, it appears that passengers were apt to be very inconsiderate and difficult to manage in those days, as they continued to be later on. "Stick to your bill, and never mind what passengers say respecting waiting over time. Is it not the fault of the landlord to keep them so long? Some day, when you have waited a considerable time, say five or eight minutes longer than is allowed by the bill, drive away and leave them behind, only take care that you have a witness that you called them out two or three times. Then let them get forward how they can." This is much more consideration than was generally shown in later years. I was once driving a mail when I had a Yankee gentleman for one of the outside passengers, who was disposed to give trouble in this way, and after being nearly left behind once or twice, he told me that I was bound to give him five minutes at every change of horses. I told him I would not give him two if I could help it, and would leave him behind as soon as look at him. I guess he was smarter in his movements for the rest of the journey. The following instructions, issued to the guards in the same year, seem to point to their having delivered single letters as they passed through the villages, but I certainly never saw such a thing done in later years. In all the towns there were probably post-offices, though such things were then few and far between, not as they are now, in every village. "You are not to stop at any place to leave letters, etc., but to blow your horn to give the people notice that you have got letters for them; therefore, if they do not choose to come out to receive them, don't you get down from your dickey, but take them on, and bring them back with you on your next journey. You are ordered by your instructions to blow your horn when you pass through a town or village. Be careful to perform this duty, or I shall be obliged to punish you." In the months of January and February, 1795, the whole country was visited by most serious storms and floods. It is described in the post-office minutes as "dreadful;" great holes were made in the roads, and many accidents happened through both coachman and guard being chucked from their boxes, and frequently coaches arrived having lost the guard from that cause. Many bridges were washed away all over the country, of which three alone were between Doncaster and Ferrybridge. The mail coach between Edinburgh and Newcastle took a day longer than usual to do the journey. Nearly all the coaches that attempted to perform their journeys had to take circuitous routes on account of floods. Bridges were washed away, roads rendered impassable by great holes in them, and, in Scotland and the north of England, blocked by snow. In the south, a fast thaw set in, which suddenly changed to intense cold, leaving roads simply sheets of ice. Through the combined exertions of the postmasters, a large number of whom were also mail contractors, many of the roads were cleared sufficiently to admit of the coaches running, but it was months before the mails began to arrive with punctuality, and many mail coach routes had to be altered on account of the roads and bridges not being repaired. This was owing, in most instances, to the road commissioners and local authorities failing to come to settlement in supplying the money for the work to be done, and in many instances the Postmaster-General was compelled to indict them for neglecting to put the road in good repair. The guards suffered very much from the intense cold and dampness, and many were allowed, in addition to the half-guinea per week wages, a further half-guinea, as, on account of their having no passengers to carry, they received no "vails." All their doctors' bills were paid, and the following are but a few of the many guards who received rewards for the manner in which they performed their duty. John Rees, guard from Swansea to Bristol, who, in consequence of the waters being so rapid, was obliged to proceed by horse, when near Bridgend, was up to his shoulders, and in that condition, in the night, did not wait to change his clothes, but proceeded on his duty; was awarded one guinea. Thomas Sweatman, guard to the Chester mail, was obliged to alight from his mail box at Hockliffe to fix the bars and put on some traces, up to his hips in water in the middle of the night, after which it froze severely, and he came in that condition to London; awarded half a guinea. John Jelfs rode all the way from Cirencester to Oxford, and Oxford to Cirencester through snow and water, the coach not being able to proceed; awarded five shillings. To our modern notions, the post-office authorities hardly erred on the side of liberality, but half a guinea was thought much more of in those days. CHAPTER II. THE ROYAL MAILS (_continued_). By the beginning of the new century the mail coach system appears to have begun to settle into its place pretty well. Mr. Vidler had the contract for the coaches, which he continued to hold for at least a quarter of a century, and appears to have brought much spirit to bear upon the work. In the year 1820 he was evidently engaged in making experiments with the view of making the coaches run lighter after the horses, and also to test their stability. He writes to Mr. Johnson, the Superintendent of mail coaches, May 15, saying, "As below, I send you the particulars of an experiment made this morning with a mail coach with the five hundredweight in the three different positions," and he accompanied this letter with cards, of which I give an exact copy. POST COACH. MAIL. 77 lbs. to remove with 5 cwt. on \| 70 lbs. to remove with 5 front wheels. \| cwt. on front wheels. \| 74 lbs. to remove with 5 cwt. on \| 65 lbs. to remove with 5 hind wheels. \| cwt. on hind wheels. \| 68 lbs. to remove with 5 cwt. in \| 61 lbs. to remove with 5 centre of the coach. \| cwt. in centre of coach. MAIL. BALLOON. 56 lbs. suspended over a pulley \| It required 60 lbs. to move moved the mail on a horizontal \| the Balloon. plane. \| \| Weight 18 cwt. 20 lbs. \| Weight 18 cwt. 1 qr. 19 lbs. \| Fore wheels 3 feet 8 inches. \| Fore wheels 3 feet 6 inches. \| Hind wheels 4 feet 6 inches. \| Hind wheels 4 feet 10 inches. \| The fore wheel raised on a block, \| The fore wheel of the Balloon stood at 26 inches without \| would only stand at 17. upsetting. \| \| The hind at 16-1/2. DOUBLE-BODIED COACH WITH FORE AND HIND BOOT. Weight 14 cwt. Fore wheels 3 feet 8 inches. Hind wheels 4 feet 6 inches. 28 lbs. suspended over a pulley moved this coach on a horizontal plane. The fore and hind wheels raised on blocks at 31 inches did not upset the coach. It required only 35 lbs. to move this coach with 5 cwt. in front boot. 32 lbs. to move it with 5 cwt. in the hind boot. 33-1/4 lbs. to move it with 5 cwt. in the centre of the body. I confess I am not expert enough to quite understand all this, but I have been induced to place it before the reader, as it occupies little space, and may be of interest to those who have a practical acquaintance with mechanics. I am equally at a loss to say what sort of conveyance the Balloon or the Double-bodied Coach were. The Postmaster-General, and those under him, appear to have always been ready to listen to any proposals or suggestions made to them for the improvement of coaches, even if, as in the case below, they were not very promising. In the year 1811, the Rev. Mr. Milton tried to persuade the Postmaster-General to adopt a system of broad wheels to save the roads, and got it adopted by a Reading coach; but, as might be expected, it was found to add immensely to the draught, and is described as being the only coach which distressed the horses. The rev. gentleman must have been a commissioner of some turnpike trust, and had imbibed such a predilection for broad wheels for the sake of the roads, that he resembled the tanner, who affirmed that "there was nothing like leather." Even without the wheels being broad, the difference between square tires and round tires is enormous. This was brought to my notice very strongly one summer when the round tires which were worn out were replaced by square ones. The difference to the horses in the draught was considerable, but it was most striking when going down hill, where the change made the difference of a notch or two in the brake. But, without having broad wheels, coaches were by far the best customers the roads had. They paid large sums of money, and really benefited the roads, rather than injured them. A road is more easily kept in repair when it has a variety of traffic over it. When, as is commonly the case now, it is nearly all single horse work, the wheels and the horses always keep to the same tracks, and the new metal requires constant raking to prevent the road getting into ruts; whereas, with a variety in the traffic, the stone settles with little trouble. Probably little or no alteration took place in the build of the mail coaches during Mr. Vidler's contract, but at the expiration of it the telegraph spring, the same as was at work under the other coaches, was substituted for what was termed the mail coach spring, which had hitherto been in use as the hind spring. This alteration had the desirable effect of shortening the perch, which was favourable to draught, and, at the same time, it let down the body, which was of a square build, lower down between the springs, which added to the stability. The same axles and wheels were continued, only that the tires, instead of being put on in "stocks," were like those on other coach wheels fastened on in one circle. As late, however, as the year 1839, the post-office authorities did not appear to be quite satisfied, as an enquiry was instituted; but I cannot find that any change of much value was suggested, and certainly none was the outcome of the enquiry. A Mr. J. M'Neil, in his evidence, said that there was no reason why, if the front part of the carriage was upon telegraph springs, the hind part should not be upon C springs. This, no doubt, would check the swing attendant upon the C spring, but might give a rather rude shock to the telegraph spring in doing so. Four years later I find that the sum of thirty shillings was allowed for "drawing the pattern of a coach." The plan, however, was not forthcoming. The following statement shows how large the business of the mail coach department had become by the year 1834, just half a century after its establishment. In England alone the number of miles travelled daily by mail coaches was 16,262. The amount of expense for forwarding the mails was £56,334; amount of mail guards' wages £6,743; the number of them employed was 247; the number of roads on which the coachman acted as guard was 34; the number of roads on which the patent coaches were used was 63, and on which not used was 51. The patent coaches, therefore, seem to have been brought into use slowly. MILEAGE WARRANTS (October, 1834). 3 at 1d. 1 at 1-1/4d. 34 at 1-1/2d. 42 at 2d. 4 at 3d. 1 at 3-1/2d. 1 at 4d. 3 paid yearly sums. 1 received no pay. Perhaps I shall find no better place than this for introducing the reader more intimately to the mail guards. It will be seen that their numbers were very considerable, and as they had exceedingly onerous and responsible duties to perform (and that sometimes at the risk of their lives), and were the servants of the post-office, it would naturally have been expected that they should have been well paid. All that they received, however, from the post-office was ten shillings and sixpence a week and one suit of clothes, in addition to which they were entitled to a superannuation allowance of seven shillings a week, and frequently received assistance in illness. For the rest they had to trust to the tips given to them by the passengers, and I think it speaks well for the liberality of the travelling public that they were satisfied with their places; for having post-office duty to perform in every town they passed through, they could have had little opportunity to confer any benefits upon them. On the subject of fees, too, their employers blew hot and cold. At one time, as has been observed, they made them an allowance for the loss of "vails"; and at another, as will be seen by the accompanying letter, the practice was condemned. A complaint had been received from a passenger respecting fees to coachmen and guards; but the letter will speak for itself. "I have the honour of your letter, to which I beg leave to observe that neither coachman nor guard should claim anything of 'vails' as a right, having ten and sixpence per week each; but the custom too much prevailed of giving generally each a shilling at the end of the ground, but as a courtesy, not a right; and it is the absolute order of the office that they shall not use a word beyond solicitation. This is particularly strong to the guard, for, indeed, over the coachman we have not much power; but if he drives less than thirty miles, as your first did, they should think themselves well content with sixpence from each passenger." It goes on to say that the guard was suspended for his conduct. I don't know how far coachmen were contented with sixpence in those days; but I know that so small a sum, if offered, would have given little satisfaction in later years, if not returned with thanks. It will still be in the recollection of a good many that in the early days of railways the mail bags were only forwarded by a certain number of trains, which were called mail trains, and were in charge of a post-office guard. They may also call to mind that there used to be attached to those trains some carriages a good deal resembling the old mail coaches, and constructed to carry only four passengers in each compartment. So difficult is it to break altogether with old associations. The guards were then placed on what was termed the treasury list, and their salary was raised to seventy pounds a year and upwards. Before I pass on from the subject of the guards, I should like to put once again before the reader the onerous and, indeed, dangerous nature of their duties, and the admirable and faithful way in which they performed them. Among other reports of the same nature I have selected the following, which occurred in November, 1836:-- "The guard, Rands, a very old servant, on the Ludlow and Worcester line, states the coach and passengers were left at a place called Newnham, in consequence of the water being too deep for the coach to travel. I took the mail on horseback until I could procure a post chaise to convey the bags to meet the mail for London. This lost one hour and fourteen minutes, but only forty-five minutes' delay on the arrival in London." Out of their very moderate pay, those of them working out of London, and in Ireland, were called upon to pay the sum of six shillings and sixpence quarterly to the armourer for cleaning arms, but in the country they looked after their own. How far these were kept in serviceable order I have no means of knowing, but judging from a very strange and melancholy accident which occurred in Ireland, those in charge of the armourers appear to have been kept in very fit condition for use, indeed, if not rather too much so. The report says, "As the Sligo mail was preparing to start from Ballina, the guard, Samuel Middleton, was in the act of closing the lid of his arm chest, when, unfortunately, a blunderbuss exploded, one of the balls from which entered the side of a poor countryman, name Terence M'Donagh, and caused his instant death." If this had occurred now, I suppose, by some reasoning peculiarly Hibernian, this accident would have been laid at Mr. Balfour's door. As has been shown by the mileage warrant the remuneration paid to the coach proprietors for horsing the mails was, with the exception of two or three cases, always very small. How they contrived to make any profit out of it, with at first only four passengers, is to me a mystery. I can only suppose that the fares charged to the passengers were very high. As the roads improved, and the conveyances were made more comfortable and commodious, three outside passengers were allowed to be carried, and the pace being accelerated, no doubt many of the mails had a pretty good time of it till the roads were sufficiently improved for the fast day coaches to commence running. Up to this time the only competition they experienced was that of the slow and heavy night coaches, and all the "_élite_" who did not object to pay well for the improved accommodation, travelled by the mails, which were performing their journeys at a good speed considering the then condition of the roads. In the year 1811, according to a table in the edition of "Patterson's Roads," published in that year, the mail from London to Chester and Holyhead, which started from the General Post-Office at eight o'clock on Monday evening, arrived at Chester at twenty-five minutes past twelve on the morning of the following Wednesday, thus taking about twenty-eight hours and a half to perform a journey of one hundred and eighty miles. The "Bristol" occupied fifteen hours and three-quarters on her journey of one hundred and twenty miles, whilst that to Shrewsbury, which at that time ran by Uxbridge and Oxford, consumed twenty-three hours in accomplishing the distance of one hundred and sixty-two miles, and, as Nimrod remarked in his article on the Road, "Perhaps, an hour after her time by Shrewsbury clock." This shows a speed of nearly eight miles an hour, which, if kept, was very creditable work; but upon this we see that Nimrod casts a doubt, and he adds "The betting were not ten to one that she had not been overturned on the road." By the year 1825, some considerable acceleration had taken place. The Shrewsbury mail, which had then become the more important Holyhead mail, performed the journey to Shrewsbury in twenty hours and a half, and was again accelerated in the following year, but to how great an extent I have no knowledge. I only know that a few years later the time allowed was reduced to sixteen hours and a quarter, and she was due at Holyhead about the same time as, a few years previously, she had reached Shrewsbury, or twenty-eight hours from London; and thus, owing in a great degree to the admirable efficiency of Mr. Telford's road-making, surpassing by six hours the opinion expressed by him in the year 1830, that the mail ought to go to Holyhead in thirty-four hours. The remuneration paid to the horse contractors was, with very few exceptions, always very small, as the table already introduced shows. Notwithstanding all the improvements in the mails, however, when the fast day coaches became their rivals, they more and more lost their good customers and then began the complaints about the small amount paid by the post-office. So
do?" asked the storekeeper, looking at the boy with his countrified air and rustic suit. "I can read, write, and cipher," answered James. "Indeed!" said the storekeeper smiling. "All our boys can do that. Is that all you can do?" James might have answered that he could chop wood, work at carpentering, plant and harvest, but he knew very well that these accomplishments would be but little service to him here. Indeed, he was rather puzzled to know what he could do that would earn him a living in a smart town life Cleveland. However, he didn't much expect to find his first application successful, so he entered another store and preferred his request. "You won't suit us," was the brusque reply. "You come from the country, don't you?" "Yes, sir." "You look like it. Well, I will give you a piece of advice." "What is that, sir?" "Go back there. You are better suited to country than the city. I daresay you would make a very good hand on a farm. We need different sort of boys here." This was discouraging. James didn't know why he would not do for a city store or office. He was strong enough, and he thought he knew enough, for he had not at present much idea of what was taught at seminaries of a higher grade than the district schools he had been accustomed to attend. "Well," he said to himself, "I've done what mother asked me to do. I've tried to get a place here, and there doesn't seem to be a place for me. After all, I don't know but I'd better go to Ohio." Cleveland was not of course a sea-port, but it had considerable lake trade, and had a line of piers. James found his way to the wharves, and his eye lighted up as he saw the sloops and schooners which were engaged in inland trade. He had never seen a real ship, or those schooners and sloops would have had less attraction for him. In particular his attention was drawn to one schooner, not over-clean or attractive, but with a sea-faring look, as if it had been storm-tossed and buffeted. Half a dozen sailors were on board, but they were grimed and dirty, and looked like habitual drinkers--probably James would not have fancied becoming like one of these, but he gave little thought to their appearance. He only thought how delightful it would be to have such a floating home. "Is the captain on board?" the boy ventured to ask. "He's down below," growled the sailor whom he addressed. "Will he soon come up?" He was answered in the affirmative. So James lingered until the man he inquired for came up. He was a brutal-looking man, as common in appearance as any of the sailors whom he commanded, and the boy was amazed at his bearing. Surely that man was not his ideal of a ship-captain. He thought of him as a sort of prince, but there was nothing princely about the miserable, bloated wretch before him. Still he preferred his application. "Do you want a new hand?" asked James. His answer was a volley of oaths and curses that made James turn pale, for he had never uttered an oath in his life, and had never listened to anything so disgusting as the tirade to which he was forced to listen. [Illustration: THE CANAL BOY] He sensibly concluded that nothing was to be gained by continuing the conversation with such a man. He left the schooner's deck with a feeling of discomfiture. He had never suspected that sailors talked or acted like the men he saw. Still he clung to the idea that all sailors were not like this captain. Perhaps again the rebuff he received was in consequence of his rustic appearance. The captain might be prejudiced against him, just as the shop-keepers had been, though the latter certainly had not expressed themselves in such rude and profane language. He might not be fit for a sailor yet, but he could prepare himself. He bethought himself of a cousin of his, by name Amos Letcher, who had not indeed arrived at the exalted position of captain of a schooner, but was content with the humbler position of captain of a canal-boat on the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal. This seemed to James a lucky thought. "I will go to Amos Letcher," he said to himself. "Perhaps he can find me a situation on a canal-boat, and that will be the next thing to being on board a ship." This thought put fresh courage into the boy, and he straightway inquired for the _Evening Star_, which was the name of the boat commanded by his cousin. CHAPTER IV. ON THE TOW-PATH. Captain Letcher regarded his young cousin in surprise. "Well, Jimmy, what brings you to Cleveland?" he asked. "I came here to ship on the lake," the boy answered. "I tried first to get a place in a store, as I promised mother, but I found no opening. I would rather be a sailor." "I am afraid your choice is not a good one; a good place on land is much better than going to sea. Have you tried to get a berth?" "Yes, I applied to the captain of a schooner, but he swore at me and called me a land-lubber." "So you are," returned his cousin smiling "Well, what are your plans now?" "Can't you give me a place?" "What, on the canal?" "Yes cousin." "I suppose you think that would be the next thing to going to sea?" "It might prepare me for it." "Well," said Captain Letcher, good-naturedly, "I will see what I can do for you. Can you drive a pair of horses?" "Oh, yes." "Then I will engage you. The pay is not very large, but you will live on the boat." "How much do you pay?" asked James, who was naturally interested in the answer to this question. "We pay from eight to ten dollars a month, according to length of service and fidelity. Of course, as a new hand, you can not expect ten dollars." "I shall be satisfied with eight, cousin." "Now, as to your duties. You will work six hours on and six hours off. That's what we call a trick--the six hours on, I mean. So you will have every other six hours to rest, or do anything you like; that is, after you have attended to the horses." "Horses!" repeated James, puzzled; for the animals attached to the boat at that moment were mules. "Some of our horses are mules," said Captain Letcher, smiling. "However, it makes no difference. You will have to feed and rub them down, and then you can lie down in your bunk, or do anything else you like." "That won't be very hard work," said James, cheerfully. "Oh, I forgot to say that you can ride or walk, as you choose. You can rest yourself by changing from one to the other." James thought he should like to ride on horseback, as most boys do. It was not, however, so good fun as he anticipated. A canal-boat horse is by no means a fiery or spirited creature. His usual gait is from two to two and a half miles an hour, and to a boy of quick, active temperament the slowness must be rather exasperating. Yet, in the course of a day a boat went a considerable distance. It usually made fifty, and sometimes sixty miles a day. The rate depended on the number of locks it had to pass through. Probably most of my young readers understand the nature of a lock. As all water seeks a level, there would be danger in an uneven country that some parts of the canal would be left entirely dry, and in others the water would overflow. For this reason at intervals locks are constructed, composed of brief sections of the canal barricaded at each end by gates. When a boat is going down, the near gates are thrown open and the boat enters the lock, the water rushing in till a level is secured; then the upper gates are closed, fastening the boat in the lock. Next the lower gates are opened, the water in the lock seeks the lower level of the other section of the canal, and the boat moves out of the lock, the water subsiding gradually beneath it. Next, the lower gates are closed, and the boat proceeds on its way. It will easily be understood, when the case is reversed, and the boat is going up, how after being admitted into the lock it will be lifted up to the higher level when the upper gates are thrown open. If any of my young readers find it difficult to understand my explanation, I advise them to read Jacob Abbot's excellent book, "Rollo on the Erie Canal," where the whole matter is lucidly explained. Railroads were not at that time as common as now, and the canal was of much more importance and value as a means of conveying freight. Sometimes passengers traveled that way, when they were in not much of a hurry, but there were no express canal-boats, and a man who chose to travel in that way must have abundant leisure on his hands. There is some difference between traveling from two to two and a half miles an hour, and between thirty and forty, as most of our railroad express trains do. James did not have to wait long after his engagement before he was put on duty. With boyish pride he mounted one of the mules and led the other. A line connected the mules with the boat, which was drawn slowly and steadily through the water. James felt the responsibility of his situation. It was like going to sea on a small scale, though the sea was but a canal. At all events, he felt that he had more important work to do than if he were employed as a boy on one of the lake schooners. James was at this time fifteen; a strong, sturdy boy, with a mass of auburn hair, partly covered by a loose-fitting hat. He had a bright, intelligent face, and an earnest look that attracted general attention. Yet, to one who saw the boy guiding the patient mule along the tow-path, it would have seemed a most improbable prediction, that one day the same hand would guide the ship of State, a vessel of much more consequence than the humble canal-boat. There was one comfort, at any rate. Though in his rustic garb he was not well enough dressed to act as clerk in a Cleveland store, no one complained that he was not well enough attired for a canal-boy. It will occur to my young reader that, though the work was rather monotonous, there was not much difficulty or danger connected with it. But even the guidance of a canal-boat has its perplexities, and James was not long in his new position before he realized it. It often happened that a canal-boat going up encountered another going down, and _vice versa_. Then care has to be exercised by the respective drivers lest their lines get entangled. All had been going on smoothly till James saw another boat coming. It might have been his inexperience, or it might have been the carelessness of the other driver, but at any rate the lines got entangled. Meanwhile the boat, under the impetus that had been given it, kept on its way until it was even with the horses, and seemed likely to tow them along. "Whip up your team, Jim, or your line will ketch on the bridge!" called out the steersman. The bridge was built over a waste-way which occurred just ahead, and it was necessary for James to drive over it. The caution was heeded, but too late. James whipped up his mules, but when he had reached the middle of the bridge the rope tightened, and before the young driver fairly understood what awaited him, he and his team were jerked into the canal. Of course he was thrown off the animal he was riding, and found himself struggling in the water side by side with the astonished mules. The situation was a ludicrous one, but it was also attended with some danger. Even if he did not drown, and the canal was probably deep enough for that, he stood in some danger of being kicked by the terrified mules. The boy, however, preserved his presence of mind, and managed, with help, to get out himself and to get his team out. Then Captain Letcher asked him, jocosely, "What were you doing in the canal, Jim?" "I was just taking my morning bath," answered the boy, in the same vein. "You'll do," said the captain, struck by the boy's coolness. Six hours passed, and James' "trick" was over. He and his mules were both relieved from duty. Both were allowed to come on board the boat and rest for a like period, while the other driver took his place on the tow-path. "Well, Jim, how do you like it as far as you've got?" asked the captain. "I like it," answered the boy. "Shall you be ready to take another bath to-morrow morning?" asked his cousin, slyly. "I think one bath a week will be sufficient," was the answer. Feeling a natural interest in his young cousin, Amos Letcher thought he would examine him a little, to see how far his education had advanced. Respecting his own ability as an examiner he had little doubt, for he had filled the proud position of teacher in Steuben County, Indiana, for three successive winters. "I suppose you have been to school more or less, Jim?" he said. "Oh, yes," answered the boy. "What have you studied?" James enumerated the ordinary school branches. They were not many, for his acquirements were not extensive; but he had worked well, and was pretty well grounded as far as he had gone. CHAPTER V. AN IMPORTANT CONVERSATION. "I've taught school myself," said Captain Letcher, complacently. "I taught for three winters in Indiana." James, who, even then, had a high opinion of learning, regarded the canal-boat captain with increased respect. "I didn't know that," he answered, duly impressed. "Yes, I've had experience as a teacher. Now, if you don't mind, I'll ask you a few questions, and find out how much you know. We've got plenty of time, for it's a long way to Pancake Lock." [Illustration: CONFERENCE WITH DR. ROBINSON] "Don't ask me too hard questions," said the boy. "I'll answer the best I know." Upon this Captain Letcher, taking a little time to think, began to question his young cousin in the different branches he had enumerated. The questions were not very hard, for the good captain, though he had taught school in Indiana, was not a profound scholar. James answered every question promptly and accurately, to the increasing surprise of his employer. The latter paused. "Haven't you any more questions?" asked James. "No, I don't think of any." "Then may I ask you some?" "Yes, if you want to," answered the captain, rather surprised. "Very well," said James. "A man went to a shoemaker and bought a pair of boots, for which he was to pay five dollars. He offered a fifty-dollar bill, which the shoemaker sent out and had changed. He paid his customer forty-five dollars in change, and the latter walked off with the boots. An hour later he ascertained that the bill was a counterfeit, and he was obliged to pay back fifty dollars in good money to the man who had changed the bill for him. Now, how much did he lose?" "That's easy enough. He lost fifty dollars and the boots." "I don't think that's quite right," said James, smiling. "Of course it is. Didn't he have to pay back fifty dollars in good money, and didn't the man walk off with the boots?" "That's true; but he neither lost nor made by changing the bill. He received fifty dollars in good money and paid back the same, didn't he?" "Yes." "Whatever he lost his customer made, didn't he?" "Yes." "Well, the man walked off with forty-five dollars and a pair of boots. The other five dollars the shoemaker kept himself." "That's so, Jim. I see it now, but it's rather puzzling at first. Did you make that out yourself?" "Yes." "Then you've got a good head--better than I expected. Have you got any more questions?" "Just a few." So the boy continued to ask questions, and the captain was more than once obliged to confess that he could not answer. He began to form a new opinion of his young cousin, who, though he filled the humble position of a canal-boy, appeared to be well equipped with knowledge. "I guess that'll do, Jim," he said after a while. "You've got ahead of me, though I didn't expect it. A boy with such a head as you've got ought not to be on the tow-path." "What ought I to be doing, cousin?" "You ought to keep school. You're better qualified than I am to-day, and yet I taught for three winters in Indiana." James was pleased with this tribute to his acquirements, especially from a former schoolmaster. "I never thought of that," he said. "I'm too young to keep school. I'm only fifteen." "That is rather young. You know enough; but I aint sure that you could tackle some of the big boys that would be coming to school. You know enough, but you need more muscle. I'll tell you what I advise. Stay with me this summer--it won't do you any hurt, and you'll be earning something--then go to school a term or two, and by that time you'll be qualified to teach a district school." "I'll think of what you say, cousin," said James, thoughtfully. "I don't know but your advice is good." It is not always easy to say what circumstances have most influence in shaping the destiny of a boy, but it seems probable that the conversation which has just been detailed, and the discovery that he was quite equal in knowledge to a man who had been a schoolmaster, may have put new ideas into the boy's head, destined to bear fruit later. For the present, however, his duties as a canal-boy must be attended to, and they were soon to be resumed. About ten o'clock that night, when James was on duty, the boat approached the town of Akron, where there were twenty-one locks to be successively passed through. The night was dark, and, though the bowman of the _Evening Star_ did not see it, another boat had reached the same lock from the opposite direction. Now in such cases the old rule, "first come, first served," properly prevailed. The bowman had directed the gates to be thrown open, in order that the boat might enter the lock, when a voice was heard through the darkness, "Hold on, there! Our boat is just round the bend, ready to enter." "We have as much right as you," said the bowman. As he spoke he commenced turning the gate. My young reader will understand from the description already given that it will not do to have both lower and upper gates open at the same time. Of course, one or the other boat must wait. Both bowmen were determined to be first, and neither was willing to yield. Both boats were near the lock, their head-lights shining as bright as day, and the spirit of antagonism reached and affected the crews of both. Captain Letcher felt called upon to interfere lest there should be serious trouble. He beckoned to his bowman. "Were you here first?" he asked. "It is hard to tell," answered the bowman, "but I'm bound to have the lock, anyhow." The captain was not wholly unaffected by the spirit of antagonism which his bowman displayed. "All right; just as you say," he answered, and it seemed likely that conflict was inevitable. James Garfield had been an attentive observer, and an attentive listener to what had been said. He had formed his own ideas of what was right to be done. "Look here, captain," he said, tapping Captain Letcher on the arm, "does this lock belong to us?" "I really suppose, according to law, it does not; but we will have it, anyhow." "No, we will not," replied the boy. "And why not?" asked the captain, naturally surprised at such a speech from his young driver. "Because it does not belong to us." The captain was privately of opinion that the boy was right, yet but for his remonstrance he would have stood out against the claims of the rival boat. He took but brief time for considerations, and announced his decision. "Boys," he said to his men, "Jim is right. Let them have the lock." Of course there was no more trouble, but the bowman, and the others connected with the _Evening Star_, were angry. It irritated them to be obliged to give up the point, and wait humbly till the other boat had passed through the lock. The steersman was George Lee. When breakfast was called, he sat down by James. "What is the matter with you, Jim?" he asked. "Nothing at all." "What made you so for giving up the lock last night?" "Because it wasn't ours. The other boat had it by right." "Jim, you are a coward," said Lee contemptuously. "You aint fit for a boatman. You'd better go back to the farm and chop wood or milk cows, for a man or boy isn't fit for this business that isn't ready to fight for his rights." James did not answer. Probably he saw that it would be of no use. George Lee was for his own boat, right or wrong; but James had already begun to reflect upon the immutable principles of right or wrong, and he did not suffer his reason to be influenced by any considerations touching his own interests or his own pride. As to the charge of cowardice it did not trouble him much. On a suitable occasion later on (we shall tell the story in due season) he showed that he was willing to contend for his rights, when he was satisfied that the right was on his side. CHAPTER VI. JAMES LEAVES THE CANAL. James was not long to fill the humble position of driver. Before the close of the first trip he was promoted to the more responsible office of bowman. Whether his wages were increased we are not informed. It may be well in this place to mention that a canal boat required, besides the captain, two drivers, two steersmen, a bowman, and a cook, the last perhaps not the least important of the seven. "The bowman's business was to stop the boat as it entered the lock, by throwing the bowline that was attached to the bow of the boat around the snubbing post." It was to this position that James was promoted, though I have some doubt whether the place of driver, with the opportunities it afforded of riding on horse or mule-back, did not suit him better. Still, promotion is always pleasant, and in this case it showed that the boy had discharged his humbler duties satisfactorily. I have said that the time came when James showed that he was not a coward. Edmund Kirke, in his admirable life of Garfield, has condensed the captain's account of the occurrence, and I quote it here as likely to prove interesting to my boy readers: "The _Evening Star_ was at Beaver, and a steamboat was ready to tow her up to Pittsburg. The boy was standing on deck with the selting-pole against his shoulders, and some feet away stood Murphy, one of the boat hands, a big, burly fellow of thirty-five, when the steamboat threw the line, and, owing to a sudden lurch of the boat, it whirled over the boy's head, and flew in the direction of the boatman. 'Look out, Murphy!' cried the boy; but the rope had anticipated him, and knocked Murphy's hat off into the river. The boy expressed his regret, but it was of no avail. In a towering rage the man rushed upon him, with his head down, like a maddened animal; but, stepping nimbly aside, the boy dealt him a powerful blow behind the ear, and he tumbled to the bottom of the boat among the copper ore. Before he could rise the boy was upon him, one hand upon his throat, the other raised for another blow upon his frontispiece. "'Pound the cussed fool, Jim!' cried Captain Letcher, who was looking on appreciatingly. 'If he haint no more sense'n to get mad at accidents, giv it ter him! Why don't you strike?' "But the boy did not strike, for the man was down and in his power. Murphy expressed regret for his rage, and then Garfield gave him his hand, and they became better friends than ever before. This victory of a boy of sixteen over a man of thirty-five obliterated the notion of young Garfield's character for cowardice, and gave him a great reputation among his associates. The incident is still well remembered among the boatmen of the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal." The boy's speedy reconciliation to the man who had made so unprovoked an assault upon him was characteristic of his nature. He never could cherish malice, and it was very hard work for him to remain angry with any one, however great the provocation. Both as a boy and as a man he possessed great physical strength, as may be inferred from an incident told by the Boston _Journal_ of his life when he was no longer the humble canal-boy, but a brigadier-general in the army: "At Pittsburg Landing one night in 1862 there was a rush for rations by some newly-arrived troops. One strong, fine-looking soldier presented a requisition for a barrel of flour, _and, shouldering it, walked off with ease_. When the wagon was loaded, this same man stepped up to Colonel Morton, commanding the commissary steamers there, and remarked, 'I suppose you require a receipt for these supplies?' 'Yes,' said the Colonel, as he handed over the usual blank; 'just take this provision return, and have it signed by your commanding officer.' 'Can't I sign it?' was the reply. 'Oh, no,' said the affable Colonel Morton; 'it requires the signature of a commissioned officer.' Then came the remark, that still remains fresh in the Colonel's memory: 'I am a commissioned officer--I'm a brigadier-general, and my name is Garfield, of Ohio.'" For four months James remained connected with the canal-boat. To show that traveling by canal is not so free from danger as it is supposed to be, it may be stated that in this short time he fell into the water fourteen times. Usually he scrambled out without further harm than a good wetting. One night, however, he was in serious pain. It was midnight, and rainy, when he was called up to take his turn at the bow. The boat was leaving one of those long reaches of slack-water which abound in the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal. He tumbled out of bed in a hurry, but half awake, and, taking his stand on the narrow platform below the bow-deck, he began uncoiling a rope to steady the boat through a lock it was approaching. Finally it knotted, and caught in a narrow cleft on the edge of the deck. He gave it a strong pull, then another, till it gave way, sending him over the bow into the water. Down he went in the dark river, and, rising, was bewildered amid the intense darkness. It seemed as if the boy's brief career was at its close. But he was saved as by a miracle. Reaching out his hand in the darkness, it came in contact with the rope. Holding firmly to it as it tightened in his grasp, he used his strong arms to draw himself up hand over hand. His deliverance was due to a knot in the rope catching in a crevice, thus, as it tightened, sustaining him and enabling him to climb on deck. It was a narrow escape, and he felt it to be so. He was a thoughtful boy, and it impressed him. The chances had been strongly against him, yet he had been saved. "God did it," thought James reverently, "He has saved my life against large odds, and He must have saved it for some purpose. He has some work for me to do." Few boys at his age would have taken the matter so seriously, yet in the light of after events shall we not say that James was right, and that God did have some work for him to perform? This work, the boy decided, was not likely to be the one he was at present engaged in. The work of a driver or a bowman on a canal is doubtless useful in its way, but James doubted whether he would be providentially set apart for any such business. It might have been this deliverance that turned his attention to religious matters. At any rate, hearing that at Bedford there was a series of protracted meetings conducted by the Disciples, as they were called, he made a trip there, and became seriously impressed. There, too, he met a gentleman who was destined to exert an important influence over his destiny. This gentleman was Dr. J.P. Robinson, who may be still living. Dr. Robinson took a great liking to the boy, and sought to be of service to him. He employed him, though it may have been at a later period, to chop wood, and take care of his garden, and do chores about the house, and years afterward, as we shall see, it was he that enabled James to enter Williams College, and pursue his studies there until he graduated, and was ready to do the work of an educated man in the world. But we must not anticipate. Though James was strong and healthy he was not proof against the disease that lurked in the low lands bordering on the canal. He was attacked by fever and ague, and lay for some months sick at home. It was probably the only long sickness he had till the fatal wound which laid him on his bed when in the fullness of his fame he had taken his place among kings and rulers. It is needless to say that he had every attention that a tender mother could bestow, and in time he was restored to health. During his sickness he had many talks with his mother upon his future prospects, and the course of life upon which it was best for him to enter. He had not yet given up all thoughts of the sea, he had not forgotten the charms with which a sailor's life is invested in Marryatt's fascinating novels. His mother listened anxiously to his dreams of happiness on the sea, and strove to fix his mind upon higher things--to inspire him with a nobler ambition. "What would you have me do, mother?" he asked. "If you go back to the canal, my son, with the seeds of this disease lurking in your system, I fear you will be taken down again. I have thought it over. It seems to me you had better go to school this spring, and then, with a term in the fall, you may be able to teach in the winter. If you teach winters, and work on the canal or lake summers, you will have employment the year round." Nevertheless Mrs. Garfield was probably not in favor of his spending his summers in the way indicated. She felt, however, that her son, who was a boy like other boys, must be gradually weaned from the dreams that had bewitched his fancy. Then his mother proposed a practical plan. "You have been obliged to spend all your money," she said, "but your brother Thomas and I will be able to raise seventeen dollars for you to start to school on, and when that is gone perhaps you will be able to get along on your own resources." CHAPTER VII. THE CHOICE OF A VOCATION James Garfield's experience on the canal was over. The position was such an humble one that it did not seem likely to be of any service in the larger career which one day was to open before him. But years afterward, when as a brigadier-general of volunteers he made an expedition into Eastern Kentucky, he realized advantage from his four months' experience on the canal. His command had run short of provisions, and a boat had been sent for supplies, but the river beside which the men were encamped had risen so high that the boat dared not attempt to go up the river. Then General Garfield, calling to his aid the skill with which he had guided the _Evening Star_ at the age of fifteen, took command of the craft, stood at the wheel forty-four hours out of the forty-eight, and brought the supplies to his men at a time when they were eating their last crackers. "Seek all knowledge, however trifling," says an eminent author, "and there will come a time when you can make use of it." James may never have read this remark, but he was continually acting upon it, and the spare moments which others devoted to recreation he used in adding to his stock of general knowledge. The last chapter closes with Mrs. Garfield's advice to James to give up his plan of going to sea, and to commence and carry forward a course of education which should qualify him for a college professor, or a professional career. Her words made some impression upon his mind, but it is not always easy to displace cherished dreams. While she was talking, a knock was heard at the door and Mrs. Garfield, leaving her place at her son's bedside, rose and opened it. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Bates," she said with a welcoming smile. Samuel D. Bates was the teacher of the school near by, an earnest young man, of exemplary habits, who was looking to the ministry as his chosen vocation. "And how is James to-day?" asked the teacher, glancing toward the bed. "So well that he is already beginning to make plans for the future," answered his mother. "What are your plans, James?" asked the young man. "I should like best to go to sea," said James, "but mother doesn't approve of it." "She is wise," said Bates, promptly. "You would find it a great disappointment." "But, it must be delightful to skim over the waters, and visit countries far away," said the boy, his cheeks flushing, and his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "You think so now; but remember, you would be a poor, ignorant sailor, and would have to stay by the ship instead of exploring the wonderful cities at which the ship touched. Of course, you would have an occasional run on shore, but you could not shake off the degrading associations with which your life on shipboard would surround you." "Why should a sailor's life be degrading?" asked James. "It need not be necessarily, but as a matter of fact most sailors have low aims and are addicted to bad habits. Better wait till you can go to sea as a passenger, and enjoy to the full the benefits of foreign travel." "There is something in that," said James, thoughtfully. "If I could only be sure of going some day." "Wouldn't it be pleasant to go as a man of culture, as a college professor, as a minister, or as a lawyer, able to meet on equal terms foreign scholars and gentlemen?" This was a new way of putting it, and produced a favorable impression on the boy's mind. Still, the boy had doubts, and expressed them freely. "That sounds well," he said; "but how am I to know that I have brain enough to make a college professor, or a minister, or a lawyer?" "I don't think there is much doubt on that point," said Bates, noting the bright, expressive face, and luminous eyes of the sick boy. "I should be willing to guarantee your capacity. Don't you think yourself fit for anything better than a common sailor?" "Yes," answered James. "I think I could make a good carpenter, for I know something about that trade already, and I daresay I could make a good trader if I could find an opening to learn the business; but it takes a superior man to succeed in the positions you mention." "There are plenty of men with only average ability who get along very creditably; but I advise you, if you make up your mind to enter the lists, to try for a high place." The boy's eyes sparkled with new ambition. It was a favorite idea with him afterward, that every man ought to feel an honorable ambition to succeed as well as possible in his chosen path. "One thing more," added Bates. "I don't think you have any right to become a sailor." "No right? Oh, you mean because mother objects
every year; that their mortgages on the property of the country are increasing yearly by that amount. This is a frightful showing, but it is a true one; it is one that the labouring classes are beginning to understand; it is one that you who are oppressing them should also understand, for, by ignoring it, you are challenging swift destruction. The only question is, how long can these things go on, with the wealth of the country increasing at the rate of two and a half per cent. per annum; it is a simple thing to calculate how long it will require for money, increasing at the rate of 6, 8, 10, and even 15 and 20 per cent. per annum, to consume the wealth. THE ROOT OF THE TROUBLE. We come now in logical order to the grand and fundamental error that has been made which lies at the back of all political fallacies, and to which are to be primarily attributed all industrial and financial ills from which we suffer, both as a nation and as individuals, since, let the Government be as good as it may, with this error lying between it and the industries, it were impossible that evil should not come upon the people. Hence, let the Government and the public service be as bad as they may; let the people suffer from bad legislation as much as they have; the fault is, after all, more to be charged against the system than against the individuals who, for the time, are its administrators. No matter how skilful the engineer may be, nor how watchful the fireman; if the engine itself be faulty in construction, it will explode; or if the engine be perfect in itself, but connected with other machinery that is not fitted to run at the same speed as the engine, then the machinery will fly in pieces. The same is true of the relations between the Government—the political organisations of the people—and the wealth producers—the industrial organisation of the people, as we shall see, for the Government is a machine constructed after the highest known principles of political mechanism, while intimately connected with it is the industrial organisation, running upon the very lowest—the rudimental—industrial mechanism. Consequently, when the political machinery runs at a high rate of speed, requiring an extra amount of fuel and water, the industrial machinery, in its efforts to supply this demand, and urged on by its connection to keep pace with the rapid motion, flies in pieces; becomes prostrated and useless, as we see it everywhere in the country now, when to keep the political machinery running at the present high rate of speed, it has to draw upon its accumulated stock of fuel, as it is doing now to the amount of $700,000,000 annually. If we go back and examine the evolution of government and industry, all this will be made clear; so clear that all may understand it. Certain fixed laws direct and regulate the growth of everything, and they are the same for all departments in the universe. The statement of the laws by which the sidereal and solar systems have evolved, will also describe those which the earth has obeyed, and are the laws of all material, governmental, industrial, intellectual, social, moral and religious change. This law as applied to government and industry may be stated in philosophic terms, thus: The progress of government and industry is a continuous establishment of physical relations within the community, in conformity with physical relations arising within the environment, during which the government, industry and the environment pass from a state of incoherent homogeneity to a state of coherent heterogeneity; and, during which, the constitutional units of the government and industry become ever more distinctly individualized. If we examine the growth of industry and government, and the relations that exist between them now, in this country, we shall discover how far they have advanced from incoherent homogeneity toward coherent heterogeneity. Looking through the dim vistas of the past into the pre-historic time, we find a time when there were no aggregations of individuals larger than the family; that the family was the only government and the only organization for industry; that its head ruled with arbitrary sway, having no one to whom he was accountable, each family having to depend wholly upon itself for subsistence. The people then were in the same state politically and industrially, and this was the homogeneous or original state. Afterwards we find that, for protection or for conquest, two or more families combined in a political sense and formed tribes, having an absolute head, but remaining in the rudimentary state industrially; next, tribes came together and built cities, and cities then coalesced and constituted nations (the rulers of which still using arbitrary power), until single rulers aspired to the dominion of the world; and in a sense succeeded. But all this time, industrially, the people remained in the original state. There had been no coalescing for the purpose of subsistence as there had been for government. While politically the people had evolved through several stages of progression, industrially they were still in the rudimentary state. Having arrived at the culmination of growth in the line of absolute power, one man having controlled the destinies of the world (thus typifying the future yet to be when the world shall be united under a humanitarian, in place of a despotic government; under the rule of all instead of that of one), a new departure was set up in the direction of this future condition, and the power to which one man aspired began to redistribute itself in limited and constitutional monarchies, down through kings and queens, nobility and republics, to the people generally, in this country advancing so far as to be divided practically among nearly one-half of the people, and theoretically among the whole. Evolution on this line will go on till every person in the world shall form a part of the government. Then the great human family will be a possibility. SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS. But up to the present time, what have the people done industrially? Almost nothing, save to subsist themselves on the rudimental plane! Nothing, save to make a few experiments at coalescing. There are a few illustrations of the first step in progress in this respect, which correspond to the coming together of families politically. But there are no industrial cities, to say nothing about nations. There were Brook Farm, New Harmony, and several other attempts at industrial tribes, and there are Oneida and a dozen lesser attempts still in existence, besides numerous cooperative movements. There are the railroad, the telegraph, insurance companies, banks and other corporations, all evidences that a real departure is about to be made in industrial organization; that is, that the people are preparing to depart from the homogeneous state industrially. The grange movement is the most positive evidence of the moving of the people generally in this direction, in which to protect themselves against the rapacity of merchants and railroads, they combine to purchase from first hands and realize a saving of from twenty to fifty per cent. This is an illustration of coalescing for protection. Most of the other illustrations, such as railroads, banks, etc., are for aggressive purposes; are means by which the people, while being seemingly accommodated, are really being robbed. Nevertheless, they are all evidences of progress in the industrial sense, those for aggression in the end compelling others for protection. That there are so many forms of coalescings for aggressive purposes, is conclusive evidence that the time is near when the people will be driven into organizing themselves into industrial communities, cities and nations, and eventually into one nation for the whole world. The first departure having been made, nothing can prevent industry from passing through the same stages of progress through which government has passed, and eventually becoming “at one” with government. Has the evolution of government proved a blessing to the people? Are we, as a people, in a better condition politically? Are we nearer the ultimate condition than they were of ancient time, when the family was the highest form of government? If we are, then we should be equally improved, industrially, if we were upon the same plane in this respect. There are no contradictions in natural growth. Like degrees of evolution bring equal good in all; the same to government, to industry, to intellect, to morals, to religion. But this development does not mean for the rich what it is inferred by them to mean, unless, indeed, they attempt to resist its progress, which if they do, the same fate will overtake them that came upon those who attempted to stay the tide of political growth. It means for them just what the development of government meant for those who held and exercised its power. The political relations of the monarch and nobility are repeated in the industrial relations of the capitalists and working men. The “levelling” politically has not been down but up. Instead of the rulers having been degraded into serfdom, the serfs have been elevated to the plane of rulers in this country. In the place of one man ruling over others, all men rule themselves, at least in theory. In this transformation no one has been deprived of anything that of right belonged to him; but the masses have received their natural rights from those who held them from them by the right of might. When the industries shall rise to the stage of growth which the government occupies, a like “levelling up” will take place; a like relinquishment of industrial power will be made in favour of the toiling masses. None who are independent now will be made dependent then; but the dependent will rise to independence. Hence the alarm of the rich is wholly without foundation. Such a move does not mean the slightest harm for them; it means equal good for all. It does not mean the taking away of any comfort or luxury from anybody; but the extension of every comfort and luxury that any have to all—to those who suffer, be it from hunger, from nakedness, from want of shelter, or other cause. OUR NATIONAL DEBT. If this analysis be applied to the present situation we shall see what is the matter with the industries. When the South rebelled, the North was compelled to resist, or else permit the national unity to be destroyed. Let it be borne in mind what stress was put upon the necessity of preserving the oneness of the people politically. To do this an army was required. When volunteers ceased to offer in sufficient numbers to keep the army to its necessary strength, the government, acting upon the right of a representative of a politically united people, resorted to drafting to determine which of the members of this unity should go into the army and jeopardize their lives for its preservation. This was in perfect harmony with the principles of government upon which this order rests, and was fully endorsed by the people. But what did the government do to subsist these men, and to provide the munitions of war? Did it proceed the same way that it did to secure the men? Not at all! It borrowed the money from the bankers of New York, Hamburg and London, and agreed to pay them a rate of interest double that demanded of any other first class nation, parting with its bonds to them at “60.” In other words, it borrowed $1,800,000,000, at 10 per cent., and gave $1,200,000,000 in bonds as bonus for making the loan. Now this was the error that was committed, for, although the people were industrially upon a lower order of development than they were politically, nevertheless, since necessity knows no law save that of its own conditions, the government should have proceeded as if we were upon the same plane in both respects. When it called for volunteers to raise an army, and the ranks of industry responded liberally, it should at the same time have also called for volunteer assistance from the ranks of wealth, to subsist that army; and as it resorted to drafting to maintain the necessary number of fighting men when volunteering failed to do it, so should it have resorted to drafting the means with which to pay their expenses when volunteer assistance should have failed to do it. Had the people been one industrially as they were politically; had the industrial organization of the people been upon the same plane as their political organization, this would have been done naturally, and there would have been no bonded debt incurred. What does this show? This clearly; that, while the government can command the lives of the working men and put them in jeopardy, even sacrifice them without stint to maintain itself, it has no power over the property of the rich to compel them to assist in that maintenance. Had it been so that the government could not have borrowed any money, it would have fallen from this disparity between the political and industrial development. Is not this clear? And if it is, does it not show a very great and grave defect in the wisdom of our institutions? But what has been the effect of this error in this instance? The present prostration of industry, necessarily: and it has come about in this way: The armies were made up from the ranks of industry; the “rank and file” were so many men taken away from producing, and, therefore, from adding to the accumulated wealth; but the maintenance of the army was borrowed at an exorbitant rate of interest from the accumulated wealth, which was wholly in the hands of those who never fired a shot in defence of the country, nor added a dollar to its aggregate wealth by labour. While the war continued, the men who were left in the ranks of industry were called upon to pay this interest; and when it was over, those who had survived the war and returned to productive toil were included with them. And it is expected that the industrial classes will continue to pay this interest until the bonds mature, and then the bonds themselves, as I shall show you that they do hereafter; or what is more to the point, for the $1,800,000,000 that the government borrowed from the money-lenders it would compel the people to return them as bonus, interest and principal, the enormous sum of $5,000,000,000. INDUSTRY OVER-BURDENED. Hence by this error, made possible by the false relations of government and industry, the government has not only compelled industry to furnish the men to fight its battles, win its victories, and maintain its integrity, but it also compels it to pay all the expenses of the war, besides to continue adding to the wealth of the rich. The gentlemen in whose interests it was principally fought, who have sat quietly at home in luxury, and drawn the life-blood from the poor, now go out of all the effects of the war with their fortunes trebled by having merely loaned the government the money it needed to maintain itself in the struggle. This is a true picture, moderately drawn, of the real facts. While I do not desire to stir up the wrongs that industry has suffered in this matter, and drive the weary toilers to seek redress, it is nevertheless time, when thousands of families are suffering the pangs of hunger as a consequence of this wrong, to lay it open before the people who have been its cause and who have profited by it; it is time that the government should be shown the errors that it has committed and be told that the people are coming to an understanding of them; time that the bond-holders should know that the people are aware of the tenure by which they hold these mortgages on the industries. Let the one protest as it may and the other plead innocence under the revelations as they will, I intend to do everything in my power to rouse them to a sense of the danger in which they stand from the still sleeping masses, who, when they shall come to a full realization of the impositions that have been practised upon them, will not hesitate at any means of redress; especially will they not hesitate when the modern Shylocks, having relentlessly demanded not only the last “pound of flesh” but their very life’s blood also, demand likewise the payment of the bonds! The people already begin to learn that the government has no sympathy for their sufferings, and that it declares that it has no power to alleviate them, which they will think is strange enough since it had the power to bring these evils upon them. WHAT LABOUR WILL SAY. Under these conditions they will soon come to argue like this:—Was it not enough to demand of industry that it should fight the battles for the government? Was it not enough that the working-classes should lay down their lives by thousands upon a hundred fields of battle? Was it not enough that mothers and wives should give their sons and husbands to fill the soldier’s grave that the wealth of the country might remain inviolate? Was it not enough that we did all this without now being forced to give our toil year after year to return these rich, who did nothing, these loans? Is it too much to ask of wealth that it pay the expenses of the war? Should we not rather demand, in tones of thunder if lesser ones are insufficient to rouse its holders to a sense of their duty, that it shall bear its part of the burden? We have looked on quietly and seen the sufferings to which this people are reduced by the rapacity of the usurers, until we can no longer hold our peace; and if it be in our power, we intend that wealth and not industry shall yet be made to pay what it should have been made to pay at first; that it shall return to the government the bonds which the toiling masses have redeemed by the rivers of blood that they have shed, and that the government shall return the $2,000,000,000 of interest that it has already filched from industry for interest on this most unjust debt. In other words, since we gave the lives that it was necessary to sacrifice to conquer the rebellion from our ranks, we intend that the rich shall give from what they had when the rebellion broke out, to pay all the expenses of the war, and we will never rest until this be done. These, I say, are the arguments to which the suffering labourers will resort if you permit them to is driven to desperation by hunger from want of employment. If the rich were wise, they would forestall all opportunity for such arguments to be used, by coming forward voluntarily to do them justice. If what I have suggested will be their arguments, is true, as you know that it is, then wealth should pay the expenses of the war without any further delay, because it is a gross injustice, not to say an unwarrantable imposition on good nature, to make the men who did the fighting also pay this debt, while those for whom it was mostly fought have done nothing but to speculate out of it. Perhaps you have never looked at it in this light; but if you have not, then I pray you look at it so now, before your attention shall be called to it in an unpleasant way; for, unless relief come soon to those who are suffering the pangs of hunger, by reason of your blindness, there will be an imperious demand made of you. THE SILVER QUESTION. As if they were not yet satisfied with the oppressions already in operation, some of those whom you have sent to Washington to conduct your business, and who have got you into all this difficulty, think that silver is not good enough money in which to pay interest, because it is not now worth proportionally quite so much as gold. Where has the wisdom and prudence of this people fled? Have they no care for what _may_ come upon their families, that they sit by and see indignity after indignity piled mountain-high upon the people? The lives, the labour, the all of the poor may be taken for the public good; but your bonds, your money, your usury must not be touched. They are considered to be of more consequence than life and toil and everything else that the poor have got to be taken!—your revenue must be sacred, and the Shylocks must take their “pound of flesh” from the daily labourer, let it cost whatever blood it may in the cutting of it; and no wise Portia comes to stay the hand already dripping with the life of the toilers, for is not the interest wrenched from their toil, their life! Look at the poor of the country; millions of them without work and their families either starving or else on the verge of starvation. Let me read you extracts from two articles from the _New York Sun_ of the 20th of July, so that you may see that I am not overdrawing the picture: “Starvation in New York. The sufferings among the poor are fearful. The sufferers are chiefly widows and young children, who, for lack of nourishment, are unable to withstand the intense heat. Instances of actual starvation are mentioned. A widow and her young daughter and son, who are unable to find work, had been for some time living on $2 a week. In a garret, without any other furniture than an old dry goods box for a table and a broken chair, live a widow and her five young children. In a closet are a mattress and a blanket, which at night make a bed for the whole family. An aged woman, who was once in affluent circumstances, was some time ago found nearly dead with hunger; it was only by careful nursing that she was saved. A young man, whose family were gradually starving, was driven to despair and intent on suicide. The child of another died, and not only was the father unable to bury it, but he was unable to provide food for the living.” These are only a few of the cases that come under the observation of a single church relief society. What shall we say of the great city? The other was entitled “Widespread Destitution in Brooklyn. At the meeting of the King’s County Charity Commissioners yesterday, Mr. Bogan said that there was almost as much destitution in the city now as at midwinter. The families of unemployed men who up to this time have never asked for a cent of charity, were daily besieging his office. The system of outdoor relief had been abandoned, and there was no way to provide for the needy except out of his private purse. The heads of families were forced into idleness by the hard times, and, having exhausted all their means were face to face with starvation.” Is not this a fearful picture of those who have helped to make the wealth with which the storehouses of the country are loaded? African slavery was a blessing compared with the condition of thousands of the poor. Let its evils have been as great as we know that they were, the negroes never suffered for food; the women and children never died of starvation; never suffered from cold or went naked. Oh, that some master mind, some master spirit, might be sent of God to show you the way out of this desolation and the necessity of deliverance. But I fear you will not be wise enough to avoid the penalty for neglecting to keep your industrial institutions on the same plane with your political organization, which is the only possible remedy for the present evils. The people must be made as much one industrially as they are politically. Then there would be harmony and consequent peace and prosperity. IS CASTE A NECESSITY? But to this the common objection is raised, that it is impossible to make industrial interests common, on account of the necessary differences in labour: that there must be caste in industry. This was the reply that the king made to the people who wanted a political republic; of course it will be the reply that the privileged classes will make to those who want an industrial republic. You know how fallacious the objection has been politically. The king deprived of his crown has not been compelled to sleep with the scavenger. It will prove equally as fallacious industrially. The money and railroad kings will not have to live with the men who do the rough work of the industrial public, unless they choose to do so, any more than they do now. The foundation stones of a house always remain at the bottom, covered up in the dirt; nevertheless, they are even more important to the safety of the house than any upper part. So it will be in the industrial structure when it shall be erected. There will always be Vanderbilts, Stewarts, Fields and Fultons—the agents of the people industrially, as there are now presidents, governors and mayors—agents of the people politically. And do you not see how perfectly this corresponds to the teachings of Jesus when He said: “Let him who would be greatest among you be the servant of all,” and with this falls the objection of the aristocrat to the industrial republic, as utterly untenable. The real inspiration of this objection, however, springs from quite another source. Those who make it know that with the coming of industrial organisation, the power which money has to increase will fall, and make it impossible for anybody to live without labour. Money has no rightful power to increase. Its origin and sphere distinctly forbid the power, as can be clearly shown. The theory that money is wealth is false. It came to be accepted from the fact that valuable things have been used as money. Wealth is the product of labour; is anything that labour produces or gathers. But the functions of money are representative wholly. Money takes the place of wealth for the time—stands for it. Here is the fallacy of a specie basis for money: specie is wealth, and can be made a basis for the issue of money, but the error consists in making a distinction against other kinds of wealth which would be equally as good. Anything that has value may properly be made a basis for the issue of a currency. If we trace the origin of money, all this will be made plain. At the basis of all questions relating to wealth and money, lie the elements—the land, the water, the air—and these are the free gifts of God to man. None have the right to dispossess others of their natural inheritance in these elements. The right to life carries along with it the right to the use of so much of each of these elements as is necessary to support it. No one has a natural right to more than this. Hence, men have no more right to seize upon the land and deprive others of its use, or part with it to others for a consideration, than they have to bottle the air for the same purpose. There can be no ownership of the elements; no ownership of the land any more than of the air or water. Pretended ownership is another name for a usurpation. But the elements, unused, are valueless. Labour applied to them yields results, and these are valuable, consequently wealth; the net results after subsisting the people are the accumulated wealth of the world, and there is no other wealth. MONEY THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. If every person were to produce all the different things he needs or wants, there would be no use for money, and the people would escape the curses that follow in its trail, but experience taught labourers that it was an economy for each to labour in some special way, and to exchange his surplus products for those of others labouring in different ways. Besides, the different climates produce different commodities, of each of which all other climates require a share. Out of these facts came agencies for effecting exchanges—money, the merchant and commerce. In their origin and normal functions they are the agents, the servants of labour; but when from exchanging the products of labour they grew into speculating in these products, then they assumed abnormal functions, and became the masters of labour. It must be seen, therefore, that the only legitimate method by which wealth can increase, is by adding to itself the net results of labour; indeed that is the only way in which it can increase. It must also be clear that these results belong _in toto_ to their producers, since, if nothing were exchanged save equivalents, these results could never pass from the hands of their producers. But by permitting the representatives of wealth—money—to have the power to increase, the makers of money have been able to filch all the net earnings from labour, and as a result of this, most of the accumulated wealth of the world is in the hands of the makers of money instead of in those of the makers of wealth. This may be legal, but can never be made just. Had the labourers been let alone they would have continued to produce and exchange their commodities among themselves without any trouble, and they could have always maintained themselves comfortably. But the “middlemen”—their agents—conceived, constructed and thrust upon them a vicious system of money, by which they are forced to pay tribute on everything that passes from, or is received by them, which tribute amounts to the total net products of all the industries. THE PRIVATE BANKING SYSTEM. The system of private or corporate banking is an example in point. Why do individuals want a gold basis upon which to issue currency? To get the privilege to levy interest on many times as much currency as they have capital invested. A bank with an actual capital of $100,000 in gold could issue $300,000 in currency, all which it could loan out together with nearly all the deposits that it could secure, which, in some instances, have been known to amount to ten times the capital. Why should not a class of men, if the people are blind enough to let them do it, speculate upon the credulity of the public through the idea that they are rendering a public service? Why should they not desire to “bank,” when by banking they can receive interest on $1,000,000, when otherwise they could collect it upon $100,000 only? The same idea is the inspiration of national banking, and of those who oppose a national currency. The banks bought, say $100,000 of United States bonds from the Government for $60,000. These bonds they deposited with the treasurer, and the people were required to pay $6000 a year interest on them, while the banks received from the Government $100,000 in national bank currency with which they were set afloat. These notes were loaned to the people, who again paid an interest on the same capital of $6000, or 20 per cent. per annum—$12,000 on $60,000; and yet the bank men have made the people think that they are offering them great accommodations. “Oh,” says the National Bank legislator, “we must get rid of these abominable, depreciated, irredeemable greenbacks, and make room for more national banknotes.” Do you know for what that legislation is bidding? He wants, if he has not already got it,—from some national bank man in his district, or else he has an interest in some bank. What is the security of national bank notes? United States bonds deposited in the Treasury. What is the security of the bonds? The public faith of the United States. What is the security of the greenbacks? The public faith of the United States. What difference in this respect, then, is there between national bank notes and greenbacks? None. Then as a currency there is this difference between the bank notes and greenbacks: If greenbacks were to take the place of the bank notes, the bank men would not get 20 per cent. interest on their capital, and the privilege of receiving and loaning the deposits of the people. But look at it in another light. Suppose the security of the national bank notes were their own capital instead of the bonds, who would not prefer to trust the faith of the United States, rather than that of any individual in these times of Credit Mobilers, Tweed and whiskey rings? Then, again, why should individuals furnish the circulating medium of the people, when the people can furnish it themselves and save the expense? $1,000,000,000 is as small an amount of currency of all kinds as will transact the business of the country properly. Why should not the $60,000,000, which the people would have to pay the banks for interest on this, be paid to the Government for greenbacks? And more! Why should not all the interest that is now paid to individuals and banks for private loans, be paid to the Government? It is estimated that the average amount of private loans for the whole country is not less than $5,000,000,000 upon which, at even 6 per cent. interest, the people are taxed $300,000,000. Is there any valid reason why the Government should not loan this money and receive this interest? Yes, for if it did, the rich could not live in luxurious idleness, while the poor are obliged to labour twice the natural time to subsist the world. WHY DO THE PEOPLE PAY INTEREST? Or still again: why should the people pay any interest at all on loans from themselves? Why should not their agent—the Government—when amply secured, freely loan the people all the money that they want for use? Suppose that the farmers and the manufacturers did not have to pay interest on the money that they are compelled to have to produce their crops and goods? Don’t you see that they could compete successfully with the people of any country in the world, in the production of anything? Institute free money and there would be no necessity for a tariff for protection to keep out the cheaper goods of other nations. But on the contrary, this country would shortly be supplying other nations with the very things with which they are now supplying us and thereby crippling our manufactures and productions. Besides, all the people would be constantly employed, prices would be low, every comfort and even luxury abundant and in the reach of all, and thrift would replace stagnation everywhere. Plenty of money, plenty of work and plenty of everything that the ingenuity and strength of man can make, are the most favourable conditions for the masses; while just the reverse is true for the privileged classes. But why, since the former class outnumbers the latter, as five to one, do not the former have all things their own way in this country where the majority rule? Ask the masses this, and they can make no reply. But it is because the superior intelligence and tact of the minority enable them to concoct schemes by which, without seeming to do so, they reduce the majority to actual, though mostly unconscious servitude; making them pay, first, all the interest on the public and private debts; next, all the expenses of the national, state, county and municipal governments; and next, obtain their own support and the increase of their wealth from them. Do you think that I overstate this? I think I can make it so clear that you cannot doubt it; and if I do, will you not think differently of the toiling masses than you have thought of them heretofore? At the beginning of any year take the amount of real wealth in the hands of the non-producers. During the year the governments continue, the taxes are gathered and the expenses are paid: your debts, your expenses and all; the producers have continued to labour as usual, and at the end of the year find themselves just where they were at its beginning; but the property of the wealthy classes has increased about three per cent. for the whole country. And while the latter class has become fewer in numbers and richer individually, the former has increased in numbers and become poorer individually. Now these are the facts, and with them before them who will pretend to say that the class who have not produced anything have added to the aggregate wealth? Whence has come this increase of wealth? From the wealth producers, from the labouring classes and from no other source. Industry being the sole source of wealth, it could have come from no other source. Hence let the non-producer get his increase by whatever strategy, it comes in some channel directly from the producer. This may be done by interest, by speculation, by sharp trades, by profits; but let it be by which it may, the producer has to pay the bill. In other words, every addition that is made to the wealth of non-producers is so made at the expense of the producers, the former having so much more than they had which they did not produce, and the latter having so much less than they did produce. This is self-evident, and all the sophistical argumentation that can ever be made cannot make it otherwise. The minority may attempt to explain it away; to show that this and that are so and so; but here are the facts staring them in the face, and they will no more down than would Banquo’s ghost for the guilty Thane. There they stand, an everlasting condemnation of the rule of the minority and the servitude of the majority. Nothing can be clearer; nothing truer. And is it not a shame that it is true? A PLEA FOR JUSTICE. You must not mistake me. I would not take
Wednesfield and Wrottesley. But Wrottesley is nearer to Tettenhall than to Wednesfield. The number of tumuli which once lay scattered over the entire range of this district may perhaps be accountable for the variations in the mediæval chronicles. As we shall see, while it is well agreed that the country lying between Tettenhall and Wombourn on the one hand, and Wednesfield and Willenhall on the other, was the scene of a great struggle, the details of the conflict vary very materially at the hands of different chroniclers. A valuable collection of old records and historical documents relating to this locality was made by John Huntbach, of Featherstone and Seawall, near Wolverhampton, nephew and pupil to that noted antiquary, Sir William Dugdale. The Huntbach MSS. related more directly to Seisdon; and it was this collection which inspired similar efforts on the part of the Willenhall Antiquary, Dr. Richard Wilkes, and ultimately led to the writing of the Rev. Stebbing Shaw’s “History of Staffordshire” (1798–1801). Speaking of the treatment of the battles of Tettenhall and Wednesfield by the old monkish historians, Huntbach says:—“There is very great reason to confirm their testimony who say the battle was here fought; for there are many tumuli or lows there, that shew some great engagement hereabouts, viz., the North Lowe, the South Lowe, Little Lowe, Horslowe, and Thrombelow. “The first four being yet visible, the North Lowe, near in lands to croft-lodge, the South Lowe near Mr. Hope’s windmill, the great and little lowe in the heath grounds; but Horslowe is not discernible by reason of the coal-works that have been here, only it giveth name to the Horselowe Field, since called Horsehull Field, now Horseley Field. “And there are not only these, but several others, partly in the way betwixt this place and Tottenhall, as at Low Hill, near Seawall, a very large one, and at Hampton Town; and another which giveth name to a field called Ablow Field, upon which stands a bush now called Isley Cross.” Ablow Field covered 40 acres of unenclosed ground near Graiseley Brook, and the tumulus once occupied the site now covered by St. Paul’s Church. Dr. Plot believes the ancient remains in Wrottesley Park to be “those of the old Tettenhall of the Danes, who, having resided there for some time, built themselves this city, or place of habitation, which, in the year 907, was finally demolished by Edward the Elder in a most signal and destructive victory. To revenge this fatal quarrel, another army of Danes collected in Northumbria, and invaded Mercia in the same year, when King Edward, with a powerful force of West Saxons and Mercians overtook them at the village of Wednesfield, near Theotenhall (Tettenhall), and vanquished them again, with much slaughter.” Another account, given by the aforementioned Dr. Wilkes, Willenhall’s most eminent son, and no mean authority on such matters, says that:—“In the year 895, King Alfred having by a stratagem forced them to leave Hereford on the Wye, they came up to the River Severn as far as Bridgnorth, then called Quat, Quatbridge, or Quatford, committing great enormities, and destroying all before them. We hear no more of them hereabout for thirteen years, but then they raised a great army and fought two bloody battles with King Edward.” The contemporary Saxon annals tell us that the Danes were beaten in Mercia in 911, but do not say where. Doubtless from time to time the whole plain rang with “the din of battle bray,” the shout of exultation, and the groan of pain; with the clash of steel on steel, and the dull thud of mighty battleaxe on shields of tough bull hide, all through that disturbed period. It would appear from a later account that at the earlier engagement of 910, which by this writer has been confidently located between Tettenhall and the Wergs, King Edward was himself in command of the Saxon forces, and that he not only gained a decisive victory, but pursued the enemy for five weeks, following them up in their northern fastnesses beyond the Watling Street, from one Danish village to another, burning and utterly wasting every one of them as they had been mere hornets’ nests. At the encounter of the following year (A.D. 911) the Danes, after a great pillaging expedition, having strongly posted themselves at Wednesfield, little advantage was gained by either side after many hours of hard fighting, till at last the Saxons were reinforced by Earl Kenwolf. Victory then fell to the Saxons. This Kenwolf, who is said to have been the greatest notable of the locality, and seated on a good estate at Stowe Heath, was mortally wounded in the fray; and on the opposite side there fell Healfden and Ecwills, two Danish kings; Ohter and Scurfar, two of their Earls; a number of other great noblemen and generals, among them Othulf, Beneting, Therferth, Guthferth, Agmund, Anlaf the Black, and Osferth the tax-gatherer, and a host of men. The name of a third slaughtered king, Fuver, is given by another old chronicler. It is to the quality rather than to the quantity of the slain that the locality is indebted for the number of tumuli on which so much of this superstructure of quasi-history seems to be raised. The historians who restrict themselves to “two” kings specify the North Lowe at Wednesfield as the sepulchral monument of one, and the South Lowe of the other. “There was,” says Shaw, the county historian, “a little to the south of the Walsall Road, half a mile south-west of the village of Nechels, a great low called Stowman Hill.” Dr. Plot, writing in 1686, declares “the bank above Nechels, where now is a stone pit, Stowman Low, now removed to mend the roads, and Northfield, to be the genuine remains; but the bank where the windmill stood was a hard rock, several yards below the surface of the earth, and there was nothing remarkable found upon the removing of Stowman Low, so that all this is uncertainty.” Although the precise location of the Tettenhall battleground has always puzzled the antiquaries, there are, says one authority, “three lows on the common between Wombourn and Swin, placed in a right line that runs directly east and west, and about half a mile to the north of them is another, by the country people called Soldiers’ Hill. They are all large and capable of covering a great number of dead bodies. “There cannot be the least doubt but this place was the scene of action, for King Edward, to perpetuate the memory of this signal victory, I presume, here founded a church, called by the name of the place Wonbourn, now Wombourn; and took this whole parish out of the parish of Tettenhall, which, before this battle, extended as far as the forest of Kinver.” It may be added, for whatever such support is worth, that in times past a number of ancient weapons have been dug up at Wombourne. Coming to the latest and most reliable authority, Mr. W. H. Duignan, of Walsall, here is what he writes in his admirable work, “Staffordshire Place Names,” under the heading “Low Hill,” which is the name of an ancient estate at Bushbury:— “Huntbach the antiquary, wrote in the 17th century that there was then a very large tumulus here. Much, if not the whole of it, has been since destroyed. The hill is lofty and a place likely to be selected for the burial of some prehistoric magnate. In 911 a battle was fought between the Saxons and the Danes, called in the Chronicles the battle of Tettenhall, but which was really waged on Wednesfield Heath (now Heath Town). “The dead were buried as usual under mounds, which in Huntbach’s time still remained, and were known as North Low, South Low, the Little Low, the Great Low, Horselow, Tromelow, and Ablow (many of these names survive), besides others which had then disappeared. It is therefore difficult to say whether the low here was a prehistoric tumulus or a battle mound.” Dr. Langford, in his “Staffordshire and Warwickshire” (p. 177), writing less than forty years ago, says that “a large number of tumuli exist near Wednesfield”; but the utilitarianism of the farmer and the miner would make it difficult to find many of these grass-crowned records on the Willenhall side of the battleground now. Dr. Windle, in his able work, “Remains of the Prehistoric Age in England” (published in 1904) gives a list of existing Barrows and Burial-mounds in this country, including some nine or ten in Staffordshire, but makes no mention of Wednesfield, Wombourne, or Tettenhall. [Picture: Decorative flower] II.—The Saxon Settlement Fourteen or fifteen centuries ago the cluster of places which we now know as the town of Wolverhampton, and the numerous industrial centres grouped around it, were then primitive Saxon settlements, each of them peopled by the few families that claimed kinship with each other. These embryo townships were dotted about the clearings which had been made in the thick primeval forest with which the whole face of England was then covered, save only where the surface was barren hill or undrained swamp. Does not the terminal “field,” in such a place-name as Wednesfield, literally mean “feld,” or the woodland clearing from which the timbers had been “felled”? Each settlement, whether called a “ham” (that is, a home), or a “tun” (otherwise a town), was a farmer-commonwealth, cultivating the village fields in common; each was surrounded by a “mark,” or belt of waste land, which no man might appropriate, and no stranger advance across without first blowing his horn to give timely notice of his approach. Remnants of these open unappropriated lands may be traced by such place-names as Wednesfield “Heath,” and Monmore “Green.” At the outset each settlement at its foundation was independent of, and co-equal with, the others; Saxon society being founded on a system of family groupings, and a government of the ancient patriarchal type. All questions of government and public interest were settled by the voice of the people in “moot,” or open-air meeting, assembled beneath the shelter of some convenient tree. Our ancestors were an open-air, freedom-loving people, who mistrusted walls and contemned fortifications. In course of time, however, the exigencies of their environment—the aggressiveness of neighbours and foreigners, the incursions of invaders and marauders—materially modified their views, and changed their habits in this respect; and so it came about in the scheme of national defence that the temple-crowned hill of Woden became Woden’s burh (now Wednesbury), a hill fortified by deep ditch and high stockade. Presently the family tie gave way to the lordship, as certain chiefs, under the stress of circumstances, acquired domination over others, and hence arose the manor or residential lordship, the head of which took pledges for the fidelity of those below him, and in turn became responsible for them to the king above him—a system of mutual inter-dependence from the head of the state downwards. Under these new conditions Stow Heath became the head of a Saxon manor, in which were involved Willenhall, Wolverhampton, Bilston, Wednesfield, Eccleshall, and a number of other village settlements. Some of these, however, were in the Hundred of Seisdon, and some in the Hundred of Offlow—a “hundred” being originally the division of a county that contained a hundred villages. The unregenerate Teuton was a pirate and a plunderer; the settled Saxon became an oversea trader and trafficker. The Anglo-Saxon merchant of later and more settled times, raised by his wealth to the dignity of a thane, became a landed man, and a lord over his fellows. Herein we have the transition from a free village community to a Saxon manor. At Wolverhampton was seated one Wolfric, said to have been an ancestor of Wolfgeat, and a relation to Wulfruna; his manor house was situated on the slope of the hill between the present North Street and Waterloo Road—doubtless a large rambling mansion of low elevation, built of heavy timbers on a low plinth of boulders and hewn stones. Here at Hantun he kept his state—such as the luxury of the age permitted to him. Seated in his great oaken hall, with its heavy roof timbers, at the close of each day he drank deep draughts with his guests and his numerous servants, in the flaring light of odorous resin torches stuck in iron staples along the walls. The smoke from his fire of logs escaped as lazily as it might through an aperture in the roof. The earthen floor was strewn with rushes, more or less clean as it was littered by the refuse of few or more feasts. The only furniture consisted of a long trestle table, with rude benches of oak on each side; the whole effort at ornamentation being limited to trophies of war and the chase hanging upon the walls. Such, in brief, was the home life of a great thane. It will be observed that Wednesfield and Wednesbury at least were founded by the Saxons in their pagan days; that is before their acceptance of the White Christ, which was towards the close of the seventh century. Tradition hath it that at the Anglian advent into this district, the worship of Woden was first set up in a grove at Wednesfield. Here was first fixed the Woden Stone, the sacred altar on which human sacrifices were offered of that dread Teutonic deity, Woden. It was carved with Runic figures—for was not Woden the inventor of the Runic characters? In sacrificing, the priest, at the slaying of the victim, took care to consecrate the offering by pronouncing always the solemn formula, “I devote thee to Woden!” Part of the blood was then sprinkled on the worshippers, part on the sacred grove; the bodies were then either burnt on the altar or suspended on trees within this mystic grove. Later, when some advance had been made by the hierarchy, the Woden Stone was removed from the Wednesfield grove to be erected within the temple of Woden at Wednesbury. There are other evidences of pagan practices to be discovered in Staffordshire place-names. Tutbury is said to derive its name from Tuisto, the Saxon god who gave the name to Tuesday, as Woden lent his to Wednesday; and Thursfield from Thor, the deity worshipped on Thursday. There is also Thor’s cave, still so-called, in the north of this county (see “Staffordshire Curiosities,” p. 159), and other similar reminders of Anglo-Saxon paganism. It is not outside the bounds of possibility that a third local place-name is traceable to the personality of Woden. Sedgley may be derived from Sigge’s Lea, and Sigge was the real name of the Teutonic conqueror who, in overrunning north-west Europe, assumed the name of Woden for the sake of prestige—he was the founder of Sigtuna, otherwise Sigge’s town, in Sweden. In the science of English place-names it is well-known that while hills and streams and other natural phenomena were allowed to retain their old British names (as Barr, “a summit,” and Tame, “a flood water”), towns, villages, and other political divisions were very generally renamed by the Saxon conquerors, the places in many instances being called after the personal names of their owners. Here are some local illustrations of place-names conferred by the Anglian invaders when they had conquered and appropriated the territory. Arley, otherwise Earnlege, was “the Eagle’s ley.” Bilston signifies “the town of Bil’s folk.” Blakenhall was “the hall of Blac.” Bloxwich was “the village of Bloc”: as Wightwick was “Wiht’s village.” Bushbury was “the Bishop’s burg.” Chillington was originally “Cille’s town.” Codsall was “Code’s hall.” Darlaston was once “Deorlaf’s town.” Dunstall, otherwise Tunstall, was “an enclosed farmstead,” half a mile outside the ancient boundary of Cannock Forest. Essington was “the town of the descendants of Esne.” Ettingshall was “the hall of the Etri family.” Featherstone seems to have been “Feader’s stone.” According to a charter of the year 994 there was then a large stone called the “Warstone,” to mark the boundary of this place. Hatherton, or Hagathornden, signifies “the hill of the hawthorn.” Kinvaston was perhaps “Cyneweald’s town.” Dr. Olive in his “History of Wolverhampton Church,” says that being originally a place of consequence. Kinvaston was placed at the head of the Wolverhampton prebends. Moseley was the “mossy or marshy lea”: as Bradley the “broad lea”; and Bentley was the “lea of bent” or reedy grass. Newbolds, an ancient farm in Wednesfield, is an Anglo-Saxon name, “niwe bold,” and it pointed out “the new house.” Ogley Hay, now called Brownhills, was originally Ocginton, or “Ocga’s town.” Pelsall may be translated “Peol’s Hall.” Pendeford was once “Penda’s ford.” Scotlands were “the corner-lands,” this hamlet being at the corner of a triangular piece of land, bounded on all sides by ancient roads. Seisdon was probably “the Saxon’s Hill.” Showells, or Sewalls, at Bushbury, on the confines of Cannock Forest, was the place where “scarecrows” (as the name probably means) were set up or shown on hedgetops to prevent the deer passing from the Forest on to enclosed or cultivated land. Stowe, a name signifying an enclosed or “stockaded” place, was another seat of a great thane; or it might have been the residential portion of the large manor or lordship already alluded to. Tettenhall was possibly Tetta’s hall; or, more probably, “Spy hall,” otherwise a watch tower. Tromelow, commonly called Rumbelows, a farm on the site of one of the Wednesfield lows, is a name that may literally mean “the burial mound of the host.” The corruption Rumbelow is probably made out of the phrase “At Tromelowe.” Wergs (The), through many transformations from Wytheges to Wyrges, is “the withy hedges.” Wobaston, an estate in Bushbury, was anciently “Wibald’s town.” Wombourne was the “bourne (or brook) in the hollow.” Wolverhampton was at first Heantune, or Hamtun, otherwise the “High town,” to which name was prefixed soon after the year 994 that of Wulfrun, a lady of rank who gave great possessions to the Church; and hence was evolved the more distinctive name, Wulfrunhamtun, since modified into its present form. Although some of these names (as Showells, formerly Sewall) may not date quite back to the Saxon period, most of them may be accepted as present-day evidences of the great Teutonic descent upon this Midland locality. One of the very few Celtic place-names retained from the previous occupiers is Monmore, which in the tongue of the ancient Britons signified “the boggy mere.” [Picture: Decorative flower] IV.—The Founding of Wulfruna’s Church, 996, A.D. After the advent of Christianity, the new religion was gradually advanced throughout the land by the settlement of priest-missioners in the various localities. Where the missionary settled on the invitation, or under the protection of a thane, or “lord,” that lordship was formed into a parish. Thus some parishes doubtless became co-terminous with the old manors. Owing, however, to the many changes of jurisdiction in the course of succeeding centuries, it is difficult to find instances of parish and manor of identical area in this locality. Bescot was a manor within the parish of Walsall; Bloxwich and Shelfield were anciently members of the manor of Wednesbury, though now included in Walsall; Bentley, at the Norman Conquest, was part of the manor of Willenhall, then belonging to Wolverhampton Church; while Dunstall was a member of the King’s manor of Stow Heath. Tettenhall parish originally included as many as a dozen manors and townships. England is made up of some ten thousand parishes, each with its parish church, around which for a thousand years has revolved the social and political, as well as the whole religious life of the place. The parish is our unit of local government, and the history of a town is usually a history of the parish. But Willenhall never was a parish. It is merely a member of a parish—of the extensive, the straggling, and loosely-knit parish of Wolverhampton. In Wolverhampton, three miles away, was located the mother church, to which it owed spiritual allegiance, and there was situated the Vestry for parochial assemblies, and all else that stood for self-government throughout the centuries. And those were the centuries when Church and State were indissolubly bound together; when a dominant church claimed, and was recognised as having an inalienable share in the government of the people. Hence it will transpire in these pages that for centuries the story of Willenhall was involved in the ecclesiastical history of Wolverhampton. The ancient parish of Wolverhampton lies widely dispersed and very detached, containing no less than 17 townships and hamlets, all subject to the collegiate church in matters ecclesiastical, though in many cases being distinct in matters secular. How broken the area is may be noted in the case of Pelsall, which is cut off from the mother parish by Bloxwich, a hamlet in Walsall parish. Willenhall is one among several other neighbouring places that, from the earliest period of England’s acceptance of Christianity, had its fate inseparably linked with that of Wolverhampton. In the giving way of paganism before the steady advances of the new religion, progress in this immediate part of the kingdom was marked by the founding of Tettenhall Church (A.D. 966), followed thirty years afterwards by Lady Wulfruna’s further efforts at evangelisation in the setting up at Hampton (or High Town) of another Christian church. This was in the reign of Ethelred the Unrede, which was a period sadly troubled by the aggressions of the Danes; and it is believed that Wulfruna (or Wulfrun) had designed to found a monastery, though as early as the time of Edward the Confessor, or within a century of its institution, her establishment is found to be a Collegiate Church. With this accession of dignity, and in grateful recognition of the lady’s pious munificence, the town became known as Wulfrun’s Hampton, now modified in Wolverhampton. Of Wulfruna herself but little is known. Whether she was sister of King Edgar, as some suppose, or the widow of Aldhelm, Duke of Northumberland, cannot be decided. It is known, however, that she was a lady of rank, and was captured when Olaf, in command of a Viking host, took Tamworth by storm. Hampton did not bear her name until some years after her death. In founding her noble church at Wolverhampton, Wulfruna endowed it with thirteen estates, including lands in Willenhall, Wednesfield, Pelsall, Essington, Hilton, Walsall, Featherstone, Hatherton, Kinvaston, Bilston, and Arley. Willenhall being only three miles away from Wolverhampton, and being also for a long time ecclesiastically incorporated with it, its history at many points cannot be detached from that of the mother parish. The wording of the charter by which the gift was made is quaintly interesting. It sets forth that: “In the year 996, from the Passion of our said Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ,” Sigeric, Archbishop of Canterbury, “with the Lord’s flock of servants unceasingly serving God,” have granted a privilege “to the noble matron and religious woman Wulfruna,” in “order that she may attain a seat in heaven,” and that “for her mass may be said unceasingly for ever” in the “ancient monastery of Hamtun.” The Charter (inter alia) grants “ten hides of land for the body of my husband,” and another “ten hides of land” for the offences of her “Kinsman Wulfgeal” lest he should hear in the judgment the “dreaded” sentence, “Go away from me,” &c. A third “ten hides” of land are granted on account of “my sole daughter Elfthryth,” who “has migrated from the world to the life-giving airs.” Mr. Duignan, who has made a close study of the Charter, says “the limits of the parishes and of the townships included in the grant are now precisely what they were a thousand years ago.” The boundaries of the lands conferred by the noble benefactress are set forth with much precision, as in the noting of brooks and fords, of parks and woods, of fields and lanes and lands; and in very few cases has Mr. Duignan failed to recognise the old names and identify them with the modern appellations of the places meant, among the latter being Willenhall, Wednesfield, Pelsall, Hilton, Ogley Hay, Hatherton, Cannock, Moseley Hole, Twyford, Walsall, &c. The original Charter has not been heard of since 1646, when it was supposed to be copied by Sir William Dugdale into his monumental work, the “Monasticon,” assisted by Roger Dodsworth, a joint editor with him. If it is still in existence Mr. Duignan assumes it is in the possession of the Dean and Chapter of the Royal Chapel of Windsor, with which the Deanery of Wolverhampton was united—as will be seen later. The formal parts of the deed are in Latin, and the descriptions of the properties are in Anglo-Saxon, which makes it an interesting study of place-names. Wolverhampton church, dedicated to St. Mary, was a collegiate establishment, with a dean as president, and a number of prebendaries or canons who were “secular” priests, and not brethren of any of the regular “orders of monks.” All the privileges which the College possessed in Lady Wulfruna’s lifetime were afterwards confirmed by Edward the Confessor, and subsequently by William the Conqueror. * * * * * The dedication of Wulfruna’s church and its consecration by Sigeric, the archbishop, have been described in verse by a local poetess. This was Mrs. Frank P. Fellows, a daughter of the famous Sir Rowland Hill, and once resident at Goldthorn Hill. Her husband was a native of Wolverhampton, a distinguished public servant, connected with the Admiralty, a Knight of St. John of Jerusalem, an antiquarian and a scientist. In a book of his published poems appear portraits of himself and his wife. Mrs. Fellows (whose mother, Lady Hill, was a daughter of Joseph Pearson, Esq., J.P., of Graiseley), also wrote poems—some of which appeared in “Punch,” some in “Belgravia,” and some in other magazines—and published a small book of verse in 1857. It is from one long piece, entitled “Fancies by the Fire,” in which the long retrospect of Wolverhampton’s ancient history unrolls itself before the imagination of the poetess, that the following extracts are taken. After a description of the battle of Wednesfield, we read:— The Princess Wulfruna heard the deeds, Told by the fire in her stately hall. Alas! then said the gentle dame, It grieves me sore such things should be. Now, by the Christ that died on tree, The Christ that died for them and me, These heathen souls shall all be free From sin, and pain of Purgat’ry; In token of our victory, Where masses shall be sung and said, And prayers told for the restless dead That wander still on Woden’s Plain— It shall be raised in Mary’s name. The noble lady with her train, and accompanied by the Archbishop Sigeric, pays a visit of inspection to the locality she designs thus to honour, passing beneath the shade of “the forest trees of Theotanhall” on her way— And as they passed thro’ Dunstall Wood, And stopped to drink where a streamlet fell, Then said the lady fair and good Here will I build a wayside well. Now Hampton town before them lay. But first they sought out Woden’s plain, Where lay the bleached bones of the slain. After the Archbishop had offered up a prayer for the dead— At length they stood upon the height That rises over Hampton town; There, amid knight, and dame, and priest, The Princess Wulfrune laid the stone, The first stone on the holy fane. Then solemnly the pious lady removed from her royal brows the golden coronet that hitherto had graced it, and put in place of it a crown of thorns, saying— It were ill done that I have worn A golden crown, while Jesus sweet For my sake wore a crown of thorn; And here I dedicate my days To Him until my life be sped. Thus far the foundation of the mother church—much more of the town’s history follows in like strain. * * * * * * Willenhall was slightly connected with another religious foundation. In the year 1002 Burton Abbey was founded by Wulfric Spott, Earl of Mercia. This establishment was richly endowed with lands, not only in Staffordshire, but also with estates in Derbyshire and Warwickshire. The names of the various places included in this munificent grant afford a very interesting study in Saxon nomenclature. For instance, in the Second Indorsement of the Charter conferring the noble gift, we may be interested to discover that “2 hides of land in Wilinhale,” lying in “Offalawe Hundred” are among the properties donated to this great Staffordshire Monastery. V.—The Collegiate Establishment We cannot be too insistent on the close connection long subsisting between Willenhall and Wolverhampton owing to the fact of the former being a part of Wulfruna’s endowment of her collegiate church. Wulfruna’s foundation consisted of a dean, eight prebendaries or canons, and a sacrist. The dean was the president of this chapter, or congregation of clergy, whose duly was to chant the daily service. The sacrist was also a cleric, but his duties were more generally concerned with the college establishment. A prebendary, it may be explained, is one who enjoys a prebend or canonical portion; that is, who receives in right of his place, a share out of the common stock of the church for his maintenance. Each prebend of Wolverhampton church was endowed with the income arising from the lands from which it took its name; as, the prebend of Willenhall. In the course of time the tithes derivable from these lands became alienated. Sampson Erdeswick, whose history of this county was commenced in 1593, says the foundation was effectuated in 970 by King Edgar, at the request of his dying sister, Wulfruna. “She founded a chapel of eight portionaries (is the way Erdeswick puts it) whom, by incorporation, she made rector of that parish (Wolverhampton) to receive the tithes in common, but devisable by a yearly lot. The head or chief of these she made patron to them all, and sole ordinary of that whole parish.” The foundation was designated the “royal free church of Wolverhampton,” the term “free” signifying that it was free of the ordinary supervision of the ecclesiastical authorities, being exempt from both episcopal jurisdiction and the papal supremacy. Indeed, it had been better for the church had it been less free, for in the time of King John the debaucheries and gross immoralities of these undisciplined parochial clergy brought much discredit upon the priestly college. The dean and the prebends had special seats or stalls in the choir of the church; the sacrist had no stall, neither had he any voice in the chapter. In modern times (1811) the sacrist has become the perpetual curate of the parish. It will be noted that the head of this college of seculars was styled the “sole ordinary” of the parish, which is equivalent to saying he was invested with judicial powers therein like a bishop in a diocese. He had authority cum omnimoda jurisdictione, and was exempt not only from the episcopal over-lordship of Coventry and Lichfield by express composition, but also by papal bull from the legates and delegates of Rome for ever. In fact, so independent was the foundation made at the outset, it remained for centuries subject only to the royal authority of the Majesty of England, and under it to the perpetual visitation of the Keepers of the Great Seal for the time being. In the year 1338, Edward III. confirmed the charter of the church as a royal free chapter, giving the Dean the jurisdiction of a Court Leet, and a copyhold Court Baron, to be called the Deanery Court of Wolverhampton. About this time, too, the church was rebuilt on more spacious and magnificent lines. Mrs. Fellows, in her topographical rhyme, previously quoted, sings of the erection of the tower In the third Edward’s time. The college then consisted of the ten members of the foundation just mentioned, augmented by other ministers and officers necessary for conducting so large an establishment, the prebendaries being officially mentioned in this order:—(1) Wolverhampton; (2) Kinvaston; (3) Featherstone; (4) Hilton; (5) Willenhall; (6) Monmore; (7) Wobaston; (8) Hatherton. By the fifteenth century Chantries had been founded, and chapels erected therefor, at Willenhall, Bilston, Pelsall, and at Hatherton; and in further depreciation of the mother church, King Edward IV., about 1465, with a desire to enrich the Collegiate Church of St. George, at Windsor, annexed Wolverhampton to that chapel royal. In Protestant times the daily services were performed by the sacrist and the readers, the prebendar
of the mass becomes finally rounded. But it will be readily seen that a slight difference of texture, or thickness, or exposure, or some trifling difference too minute for observation, might easily add many decades to the apparent age of a mound. The walls once fallen, however, the rounding or smoothing of the mounds would probably proceed at an equal rate throughout the group, and study of the profile gives a fairly good estimate as to the comparative age of the mounds. On this basis the most ancient mounds are those specified above, while the most recent are those in the immediate vicinity of the Casa Grande ruin. This estimate accords well with the limited historical data and with the Pima traditions, which recount that the Casa Grande ruin was the last inhabited village in this vicinity. [Illustration: Fig. 328.--Map of large mound.] Probably intermediate in time between the Casa Grande ruin and the rounded mounds described above should be placed the large structure occupying the northern-central part of the map. This mound is deserving of more than a passing notice. It consists of two mounds, each four or five times the size of the Casa Grande ruin, resting on a flat-topped pedestal or terrace about 5 feet above the general level. The summits of these mounds, which are nearly flat, are some 13 feet above this level. The sides of the mounds slope very sharply, and have suffered somewhat from erosion, being cut by deep gullies, as shown in figure 328, which is an enlargement from the map. It has been stated that these structures were mounds, pure and simple, used for sacrifice or worship, resembling somewhat the well-known pyramid of Cholula; but there is no doubt that they are the remains of house-structures, for a careful examination of the surface on the slopes, reveals the ends of regular walls. The height is not exceptional, the mound on the east being less than 3 feet lower, while the one on the southeast lacks less than 4 feet of its height. The characteristic feature, however, and one difficult to explain, except on the hypothesis stated, is the sharp slope of the sides. It will be noticed that the raised base or terrace on which the mounds are located is not perfectly flat, but on the contrary has a raised rim. This rim seems quite inconsistent with the theory which has been advanced that the terrace was built up solidly as a terrace or base, as in that case it would seem natural that the slope from the base of the mounds to the edge of the terrace would be continuous. There is an abundance of room between the crest of the rim and the base of the terrace for a row of single rooms, inclosing a court within which the main structures stood, or such a court may have been covered, wholly or partly with clusters of rooms, single storied outside, but rising in the center, in two main clusters, three or more stories high. Such an agglomeration of rooms might under certain conditions produce the result seen here, although a circumscribing heavy wall, occupying the position of the crest of the rim and inclosing two main clusters each rising three or more stories, might also produce this result. The difficulty with the latter hypothesis is, however, that under it we should expect to find a greater depression between the base of the mounds and the edge of the terrace. The most reasonable hypothesis, therefore, is that the space between the base of the mounds and the edge of the terrace was occupied by rooms of one story. This would also help to explain the steepness of the slopes of the mounds themselves. The walls of the structures they represent, being protected by the adjacent low walls of the one-story rooms, would not suffer appreciably by undermining at the ground level, and if the central room or rooms of each cluster were higher than the surrounding rooms, as is the case in the Casa Grande ruin, the exterior walls, being usually heavier than the inner walls, would be the last to succumb, the clusters would be filled up by the disintegration of the inner walls, and not until the spaces between the low one-story walls surrounding the central cluster were nearly filled up would the pronounced disintegration of the outer walls of the structures commence. At that period the walls were probably covered and protected by debris dropping from above, and possibly the profile of the mounds was already established, being only slightly modified by surface erosion since. [Illustration: Pl. LII: Ground Plan of Casa Grande Ruin.] About the center of the eastern side of the terrace, and also on the western side, the water which falls on the surface of the structure is discharged through rather pronounced depressions at these points. These depressions are not the work of running water, though doubtless emphasized by that agency, but represent low or open spaces in the original structure, probably passageways or gateways. Furthermore, before or inside each gateway there is a slightly depressed area, just where we would expect to find it under our hypothesis, and showing that the process of filling in is not yet completed. If the structure were to remain undisturbed for some decades longer these spaces would doubtless be filled up from material washed from the mounds, giving eventually a continuous slope from the base of the mounds to the edge of the terrace. On the eastern margin of the map and in the southeastern corner two small and sharply defined mounds, differing in character from any others of the group, are represented. That shown on the eastern margin rises about 6 feet and the other about 10 feet above the surrounding level, and both stand out alone, no other remains occurring within a hundred yards in any direction. These mounds seem a thing apart from the other remains in the group; and it is probable that they represent the latest period in the occupancy of this site, or possibly a period subsequent to its final abandonment as a place of residence. Analogous remains occur in conjunction with some large ruins in the north, and there they represent single rooms, parts of the original structure kept in a fair state of preservation by occasional repairs while the remainder of the village was going to ruin, and used as farming outlooks long after the site was abandoned as a place of residence. As these farming outlooks have been discussed at some length in another paper[1] it is not necessary here to enlarge upon their function and the important part they play in Pueblo architecture. If the high mounds in question mark, as supposed, the sites of farming outlooks such as those which are found in the north, they indicate that the occupancy of the region in which they occur was continued after the abandonment of the Casa Grande structure by the people who built it or by people of similar habits and customs. [Footnote 1: A Study of Pueblo Architecture; 8th Ann. Rep. Bur. Eth., 1891, pp. 86, 227, and elsewhere.] An inspection of the map will show a number of depressions, some of quite large area, indicated by dotted contour lines. The principal one occurs a little west of the center of the area, and is worth more than a passing notice since similar structures are widely distributed throughout this region. It may be roughly characterized as a mound with excavated center. The ground for some distance about the structure (except for two depressions discussed later) is quite flat. From this flat surface as a base the structure rises to a height of 5 feet. From the exterior it has the appearance of an ordinary mound, but on reaching the top the interior is found to be hollowed out to a depth which even at the present day is below the surrounding surface, although not below the depressions adjoining. The main structure or mound is shown in figure 329 (an enlargement from the map). It measures on top of the crest 150 feet from north to south and about 80 feet from east to west, but covers a ground area of 200 feet by 120 feet or over half an acre. The crest is of the same height throughout, except for slight elevations on the eastern and western sides and a little knoll or swell in the southwestern corner. There is no indication of any break in the continuity of the crest such as would be found were there openings or gateways to the interior. The bottom of the depression in the main structure is at present about a foot below the surrounding ground surface, but it must have been originally considerably more than this, as the profile indicates long exposure to atmospheric erosion and consequent filling of the interior. No excavation was made and the character of the construction can not be determined, but the mound is apparently a simple earth structure--not laid up in blocks, like the Casa Grande ruin. [Illustration: Fig. 329.--Map of hollow mound.] [Illustration: Pl. LIII: General View of Casa Grande.] To the east and to the west are two large depressions, each about 5 feet below the surrounding ground surface, evidently the places whence the material for the construction of the mound was obtained. Yet the amount of material removed from these excavations must have been considerably in excess of that used in the construction of the mound, and this excess was doubtless utilized in neighboring constructions, since it is hardly to be supposed that it was carried away to any considerable distance. The purpose of this hollow mound, which is a fair type of many similar structures found in this region, is not clear. Mr. Frank Hamilton Cushing, while director of the Hemenway southwestern archeological expedition, found a number of these structures and excavated some of them. From remains thus found he concluded that they were sun-temples, as he termed them, and that they were covered with a roof made of coiled strands of grass, after a manner analogous to that in which pueblo baskets are made. A somewhat similar class of structures was found by the writer on the upper Rio Verde, but these were probably thrashing floors. Possibly the structure under discussion was for a similar purpose, yet its depth in proportion to its size was almost too great for such use. The question must be left for determination if possible by excavation. In the southern central part of the map is shown another excavation, covering a larger area than any of the others, of very irregular outline and from 3 to 4 feet deep. It is apparently older than the others and probably furnished the material for the house structures northeast and southwest of it. Bordering the depression on the south there are some low mounds, almost obliterated, which probably were the sites of other house structures. Scattered about the area shown on the map there are several small depressions, usually more regular in outline than those described. The best example is situated near the northeastern corner of the area. It is situated in the point of a low promontory, is about 3 feet deep, almost regularly oval in outline, and measures about 50 by 100 feet. A similar depression less than 2 feet deep occurs near the northwest corner of the area, and immediately south of the last there is another, more irregular in outline, and nearly 3 feet deep. There are also some small depressions in the immediate vicinity of the Casa Grande ruin and of the mounds north of it. With a single exception none of these depressions are so situated that they could be used as reservoirs for the storage of water collected from the surface, and the catchment area of the depressions is so small and the rate of evaporation in this area so great that their use as reservoirs is out of the question. It is probable that all of the smaller depressions represent simply sites where building material was obtained. Possibly the ground at these points furnished more suitable material than elsewhere, and, if so, the builders may have taken the trouble to transport it several hundred yards rather than follow the usual practice of using material within a few feet of the site. This hypothesis would explain the large size of the depressions, otherwise an anomalous feature. CASA GRANDE RUIN. _State of Preservation._ The area occupied by the Casa Grande ruin is insignificant as compared with that of the entire group, yet it has attracted the greater attention because it comprises practically all the walls still standing. There is only one small fragment of wall east of the main structure and another south of it. The ruin is especially interesting because it is the best preserved example now remaining of a type of structure which, there is reason to believe, was widely distributed throughout the Gila valley, and which, so far as now known, is not found elsewhere. The conditions under which pueblo architecture developed in the north were peculiar, and stamped themselves indelibly on the house structures there found. Here in the south there is a radical change in physical environment: even the available building material was different, and while it is probable that a systematic investigation of this field will show essentially the same ideas that in the north are worked out in stone, here embodied in a different material and doubtless somewhat modified to suit the changed environment, yet any general conclusion based on the study of a single ruin would be unsafe. In the present state of knowledge of this field it is not advisable to attempt more than a detailed description, embodying, however, a few inferences, applicable to this ruin only, which seem well supported by the evidence obtained. The Casa Grande ruin is located near the southwestern corner of the group, and the ground surface for miles about it in every direction is so flat that from the summit of the walls an immense stretch of country is brought under view. On the east is the broad valley of Gila river rising in a great plain to a distant range of mountains. About a mile and a half toward the north a fringe of cottonwood trees marks the course of the river, beyond which the plain continues, broken somewhat by hills and buttes, until the view is closed by the Superstition mountains. On the northwest the valley of Gila river runs into the horizon, with a few buttes here and there. On the west lies a range of mountains closing the valley in that direction, while toward the southwest and south it extends until in places it meets the horizon, while in other places it is closed by ranges of mountain blue and misty in the distance. In an experience of some years among northern ruins, many of them located with special reference to outlook over tillable lands, the writer has found no other ruin so well situated as this. The character of the site occupied by the ruin indicates that it belongs to a late date if not to the final period in the occupancy of this region, a period when by reason of natural increase of numbers, or perhaps aggregation of related gentes, the defense motive no longer dominated the selection of a village site, but reliance was placed on numbers and character of structures, and the builders felt free to select a site with reference only to their wants as a horticultural people. This period or stage has been reached by many of the Pueblo tribes, although mostly within the historical period; but some of them, the Tusayan for example, are still in a prior stage. [Illustration: Pl. LIV: Standing Wall near Casa Grande.] A ground plan of the ruin is shown in plate LII, and a general view in plate LIII. The area covered and inclosed by standing walls is about 43 feet by 59 feet, but the building is not exactly rectangular, and the common statement that it faces the cardinal points is erroneous. The variation from the magnetic north is shown on the ground plan, which was made in December, 1890. The building comprised three central rooms, each approximately 10 by 24 feet, arranged side by side with the longer axes north and south, and two other rooms, each about 9 by 35 feet, occupying respectively the northern and southern ends of the building, and arranged transversely across the ends of the central rooms, with the longer axes running east and west. Except the central room, which was three stories in height, all the rooms were two stories above the ground. The northeastern and southeastern corners of the structure have fallen, and large blocks of the material of which they were composed are strewn upon the ground in the vicinity. It is probable that the destruction of these corners prior to that of the rest of the building was due to the disintegration of minor walls connected with them and extending, as shown by the ridges on the ground plan, northward from the northeastern corner and eastward from the southeastern corner. These walls doubtless formed part of the original structure and were probably erected with it; otherwise the corners of the main structure would not have been torn out or strained enough to fall before the rest of the building was affected. It is not likely that the main building originally stood alone as at present. On the contrary there is every reason to suppose that it was connected with other buildings about 75 feet east of it, now marked by a bit of standing wall shown on the map (plate LI), and probably also with a small structure about 170 feet south of it, shown in plate LIV. These connections seem to have been by open courts inclosed by walls and not by continuous buildings. The court east of the ruin is well marked by the contours and seems to have been entered by a gateway or opening at its southeastern corner. _Dimensions._ It is probable that the area immediately adjacent to the ruin, and now covered by mounds, carried buildings of the same time with the main structure and was occupied contemporaneously with it or nearly so. This area, well marked on the map, measures about 400 feet north and south, and 240 feet east and west. It is not rectangular, although the eastern and western sides, now marked by long ridges, are roughly parallel. The northeastern corner does not conform to a rectangular plan, and the southern side is not more than half closed by the low ridge which extends partly across it. This area is doubtless the one measured in 1776, by Padre Font, whose description, was copied by later writers, and whose measurements were applied by Humboldt and others to the ruin itself. Font gave his measurements as those of a circumscribing wall, and his inference has been adopted by many, in fact most, later writers. A circumscribing wall is an anomalous feature, in the experience of the writer, and a close inspection of the general map will show that Font's inference is hardly justified by the condition of the remains today. It seems more likely that the area in question was covered by groups of buildings and rows of rooms, connected by open courts, and forming an outline sometimes regular for a considerable distance, but more often irregular, after the manner of pueblo structures today. The long north and south ridge which forms the southeastern corner of the area, with other ridges extending westward, is quite wide on top, wide enough to accommodate a single row of rooms of the same width as those of the ruin, and it is hardly reasonable to suppose that a wall would be built 10 or 12 feet wide when one of 4 feet would serve every purpose to which it could possibly be put. Furthermore, the supposition of an inclosing wall does not leave any reasonable explanation of the transverse ridges above mentioned, nor of the long ridge which runs southward from the southeastern corner of the ruin. The exterior walls rise to a height of from 20 to 25 feet above the ground. This height accommodated two stories, but the top of the wall is now 1 to 2 feet higher than the roof level of the second story. The middle room or space was built up three stories high and the walls are now 28 to 30 feet above the ground level. The tops of the walls, while rough and much eroded, are approximately level. The exterior surface of the walls is rough, as shown in the illustrations, but the interior walls of the rooms are finished with a remarkable degree of smoothness, so much so as to attract the attention of everyone who has visited the ruin. Mange, who saw the ruin with Padre Font in 1697, says the walls shine like Puebla pottery, and they still retain this finish wherever the surface has not cracked off. This fine finish is shown in a number of illustrations herewith. The walls are not of even thickness. At the ground level the exterior wall is from 3½ to 4½ feet thick, and in one place at the southern end of the eastern wall, is a trifle over 5 feet thick. The interior walls are from 3 to 4 feet thick at base. At the top the walls are reduced to about 2 feet thick, partly by setbacks or steps at the floor levels, partly by exterior batter, the interior wall surface being approximately vertical. Some writers, noting the inclination of the outer wall surface, and not seeing the interior, have inferred that the walls leaned considerably away from the perpendicular. This inference has been strengthened, in some cases, by an examination of the interior, for the inner wall surface, while finely finished, is not by any means a plane surface, being generally concave in each room; yet a line drawn from floor level to floor level would be very nearly vertical. The building was constructed by crude methods, thoroughly aboriginal in character, and there is no uniformity in its measurements. The walls, even in the same room, are not of even thickness, the floor joists were seldom on a straight line, and measurements made at similar places, e.g., the two ends of a room, seldom agree. [Illustration: Pl. LV: West Front of Casa Grande Ruin.] A series of precise measurements gives the following results: Outside eastern wall, at level 3 feet above center of depressed area adjoining the ruin on the east, 59 feet; western wall at same level, 59 feet 1 inch; northern and southern walls, at same level, 42 and 43 feet respectively. These measurements are between points formed by the intersection of the wall lines; the northeastern and southeastern corners having fallen, the actual length of standing wall is less. At the level stated the northern wall measures but 34 feet 4 inches, and the southern wall 36 feet 10 inches. A similar irregularity is found in the interior measurements of rooms. The middle room is marked by an exceptional departure from regularity in shape and dimensions. Both the east and west walls are bowed eastward, making the western wall convex and the eastern wall concave in reference to the room. Precise measurements of the middle room at the second floor level, 8 feet above the base previously stated, are as follows: Eastern side, 24 feet 8½ inches; western side, 24 feet 2 inches; northern side, 9 feet 3½ inches; southern side, 9 feet 1 inch. The eastern room is a little more regular, but there is a difference of 11 inches between the measurements of the northern and southern ends. A similar difference is found in the western room, amounting there to 6 inches. The northern and southern rooms do not afford as good bases for comparison, as a corner is missing in each; but measurements to a point where the interior wall surfaces would intersect if prolonged, show variations of from 6 inches to a foot. The statement that the ruin exhibits exceptional skill in construction on the part of the builders, is not, therefore, supported by facts. _Detailed Description._ The Casa Grande ruin is often referred to as an adobe structure. Adobe construction, if we limit the word to its proper meaning, consists of the use of molded brick, dried in the sun but not baked. Adobe, as thus defined, is very largely used throughout the southwest, more than nine out of ten houses erected by the Mexican population and many of those erected by the Pueblo Indians being so constructed; but, in the experience of the writer, it is never found in the older ruins, although seen to a limited extent in ruins known to belong to a period subsequent to the Spanish conquest. Its discovery, therefore, in the Casa Grande would be important; but no trace of it can be found. The walls are composed of huge blocks of earth, 3 to 5 feet long, 2 feet high, and 3 to 4 feet thick. These blocks were not molded and placed in situ, but were manufactured in place. The method adopted was probably the erection of a framework of canes or light poles, woven with reeds or grass, forming two parallel surfaces or planes, some 3 or 4 feet apart and about 5 feet long. Into this open box or trough was rammed clayey earth obtained from the immediate vicinity and mixed with water to a heavy paste. When the mass was sufficiently dry, the framework was moved along the wall and the operation repeated. This is the typical pisé or rammed-earth construction, and in the hands of skilled workmen it suffices for the construction of quite elaborate buildings. As here used, however, the appliances were rude and the workmen unskilled. An inspection of the illustrations herewith, especially of plate LV, showing the western wall of the ruin, will indicate clearly how this work was done. The horizontal lines, marking what may be called courses, are very well defined, and, while the vertical joints are not apparent in the illustration, a close inspection of the wall itself shows them. It will be noticed that the builders were unable to keep straight courses, and that occasional thin courses were put in to bring the wall up to a general level. This is even more noticeable in other parts of the ruin. It is probable that as the walls rose the exterior surface was smoothed with the hand or with some suitable implement, but it was not carefully finished like the interior, nor was it treated like the latter with a specially prepared material. The material employed for the walls was admirably suited for the purpose, being when dry almost as hard as sandstone and practically indestructible. The manner in which such walls disintegrate under atmospheric influences has already been set forth in detail in this report. An inhabited structure with walls like these would last indefinitely, provided occupancy continued and a few slight repairs, which would accompany occupancy, were made at the conclusion of each rainy season. When abandoned, however, sapping at the ground level would commence, and would in time level all the walls; yet in the two centuries which have elapsed since Padre Kino's visit--and the Casa Grande was then a ruin--there has been but little destruction, the damage done by relic hunters in the last twenty years being in fact much greater than that wrought by the elements in the preceding two centuries. The relic hunters seem to have had a craze for wood, as the lintels of openings and even the stumps of floor joists have been torn out and carried away. The writer has been reliably informed that as late as twenty years ago a portion of the floor or roof in one of the rooms was still in place, but at the present day nothing is left of the floors except marks on the vertical walls, and a few stumps of floor joists, deeply imbedded in the walls, and so high that they can not be seen from the ground. [Illustration: Pl. LVI: Interior Wall of Casa Grande Ruin.] The floors of the rooms, which were also the roofs of the rooms below, were of the ordinary pueblo type, employed also today by the American and Mexican population of this region. In the Casa Grande ruin a series of light joists or heavy poles was laid across the shorter axis of the room at the time the walls were erected; these poles were 3 to 6 inches in diameter, not selected or laid with unusual care, as the holes in the side walls which mark the places they occupied are seldom in a straight line, and their shape often indicates that the poles were quite crooked. Better executed examples of the same construction are often found in northern ruins. Over the primary series of joists was placed a layer of light poles, 1½ to 2 inches in diameter, and over these reeds and coarse grass were spread. The prints of the light poles can still be seen on the walls. The floor or roof was then finished with a heavy coating of clay, trodden down solid and smoothed to a level. A number of blocks of this final floor finish, bearing the impress of the grass and reeds, were found in the middle room. There is usually a setback in the wall at the floor level, but this practice was not followed in all the rooms. The position of the floor is well marked in all cases by holes in the wall, into which beams projected sometimes to a depth of 3 feet, and by a peculiar roughness of the wall. Plate LVI shows two floor levels, both set back slightly and the upper one strongly marked by the roughness mentioned. This roughness apparently marks the thickness of the floor in some cases, yet in others it is much too thick for a floor and must have had some other purpose. The relation of these marks to the beam holes suggests that in some cases there was a low and probably narrow bench around two or more sides of the room; such benches are often found in the present Pueblo villages. The walls of the northern room are fairly well preserved, except in the northeastern corner, which has fallen. The principal floor beams were of necessity laid north and south, across the shorter axis of the room, while the secondary series of poles, 1½ inches in diameter, have left their impression in the eastern and western walls. There is no setback in the northern wall at the first floor level, though there is a very slight one in the southern wall; none appears in the eastern and western walls. Yet in the second roof level there is a double setback of 9 and 5 inches in the western wall, and the northern wall has a setback of 9 inches, and the top of the wall still shows the position of nearly all the roof timbers. This suggests--and the suggestion is supported by other facts to be mentioned later--that the northern room was added after the completion of the rest of the edifice. The second roof or third floor level, the present top of the wall, has a decided pitch outward, amounting to nearly 5 inches. Furthermore, the outside of the northern wall of the middle room, above the second roof level of the northern room, is very much eroded. This indicates that the northern room never had a greater height than two stories, but probably the walls were crowned with low parapets. In this connection it may be stated that a calculation of the amount of débris within the building and for a distance of 10 feet about it in every direction, the interior floor level being determined by excavation, showed an amount of material which, added to the walls, would raise them less than 3 feet; in other words, the present height of the walls is very nearly the maximum height. Subsequent to this examination the ruin was cleared out by contractors for the Government in carrying out a plan for the repair and preservation of the ruin, and it was reported that in one of the rooms a floor level below that previously determined was found, making an underground story or cellar. This would but slightly modify the foregoing conclusion, as the additional débris would raise the walls less than a foot, and in the calculation no account was taken of material removed from the surface of the walls. In support of the hypothesis that the second roof level of the northern room was the top roof, it may be stated that there is no trace of an opening in the walls above that level, except on the western side. There was a narrow opening in the western corner, but so well filled that it is hardly perceptible. Doubtless it formed a niche or opening in the parapet. The southern wall on the first roof level still preserves very clear and distinct impressions of the rushes which were used in the construction of the roof. In some cases these impressions occur 3 inches above the top of the floor beams, in others directly above them, showing that the secondary series of poles was very irregularly placed. In the eastern and western walls the impressions of rushes are also clear, but there they are parallel with the wall surface. The rushes were about the thickness of a pencil. The floor joists were 3 to 4 inches in diameter, and as a rule projected into the wall but 5 to 8 inches. In some places in the northern wall, however, they extended into the masonry as much as 3 feet 3 inches. The beams were doubtless cut by guess, at the place where trees of the requisite size were found, according to the method employed by the Pueblo Indians today, and if, as supposed, the northern room was built after the rest of the structure, the excess in length would necessarily be found in the northern wall. In the roof construction previously described rushes or canes formed the third member, and in the northern room the wall is rough immediately above the impressions of rushes, and projects 8 to 12 inches. This feature is well marked; it may be a remnant of the clay covering of floor or roof, but it is almost too thick for that and possibly marks the position of a low bench, as previously suggested. The bottoms of the openings come just to or a trifle above the top of this marking. [Illustration: Pl. LVII: Blocked Opening in West Wall.] The walls of the western room were smoothly finished and the finish is well preserved, but here, as in the northern room, the exterior wall of the middle room was not finished above the second roof level, and there is no doubt that two stories above the ground were the maximum height of the western rooms, excluding the parapet. The eastern wall presents a marked double convexity while the western wall is comparatively straight in a horizontal line, but markedly concave vertically above the first roof level. Below this level it is straight. The floor beams were from 3 to 6 inches in diameter. The marks in the eastern wall show that the beams projected into it to a nearly uniform depth of 1 foot 4 inches. In the western wall, however, the depth varies from 1 to 3 feet. The beams which entered the eastern wall were very irregularly placed, the line rising in the center some 3 or 4 inches. The beams of the second roof level show the same irregularity and in the same place; possibly this was done to correct a level, for the same feature is repeated in the eastern room. The walls of the southern room are perhaps better finished and less well constructed than any others in the building. The beam holes in the southern wall are regular, those in the northern wall less so. The beams used averaged a little smaller than those in the other rooms, and there is no trace whatever in the overhanging wall of the use of rushes or canes in the construction of the roof above. The walls depart considerably from vertical plane surfaces; the southern wall inclines fully 12 inches inward, while in the northeastern corner the side of a doorway projects fully 3 inches into the room. The broken condition of the southern wall indicates carelessness in construction. The weakest point in pisé construction is of course the framing around openings. In the southern wall the openings, being doubtless the first to give way, are now almost completely obliterated. In the center of the wall there were two openings, one above the other, but not a trace of lintels now remains, and the eastern half of the wall now stands clear from other walls. Probably there was also an opening near the southwestern corner of the room, but the lintels giving way the wall above fell down and, as shown on the ground plan (plate LII), filled up the opening. This could happen only with exceptionally light lintels and exceptionally bad construction of walls; one of the large blocks, before described as composing the wall, must have rested directly above the opening, which was practically the same size as the block. The walls of the eastern room were well finished, and, except the western wall, in fairly good preservation. The floor beams were not placed in a straight line, but rise slightly near the middle, as noted above. The finish of some of the openings suggests that the floor was but 3 or 4 inches above the beams, and that the roughened surface, already mentioned, was not part of it. The northern wall of this room seems to have run through to the outside, on the east, as though at one time it formed the exterior wall of the structure; and the eastern wall of the building north of this room is separated from the rest of the wall by a wide crack, as though it had been built against a smooth surface. The western wall of this room shows clearly that in the construction of the building the floor beams were laid on the tops of the walls, and that the intervening spaces were filled with small lumps of material up to a level with or a little above the upper surface of the beams, the regular construction with large blocks being then
’ll stand by you—sure I will.” “I ran away once and got caught and lambasted for it.” “You wouldn’t get caught if I hid you,” declared Jim. “Besides, you and me could fight.” They fell to planning what they would do if they were hidden and the people came to get them, and they had to fight; or what would happen if they came across a wildcat or a rattlesnake. They got very well acquainted, and were almost ready to start off together to “take care of themselves,” as Hi put it, when a horn was blown from somewhere far above their heads. “That’s for me,” cried Jim. “Come, we must go,” and forgetting all about his plan for running away, he began scrambling up the rocks toward home. He was really astonished to find that the afternoon had passed and that the people were cooking supper within and without the house, and he learned that Elder Mills had preached the funeral sermon for “poor Mis’ Knox” and that there was a fresh mound of earth beside Molly’s little grave. A wonderful golden light lay across the higher reaches of the mountains, and below, the valley rested in deep purple shadow. The martins were snug in their hanging gourds in the crosstrees, and Jim could hear them making little sleepy noises. It seemed so sweet there at home that he couldn’t bear to think of Hi going on, and when he heard the boy’s uncle swearing at him because he had left some chores undone, Jim hated Sisson. He thought what fun he and Hi could have if they were allowed to prowl about and cook their supper together. Jim knew how to build a fire, and how to put it out. His father had taught him to take care of the woods and to keep them from catching fire. Now he came to think of it, he knew a great many things that he would like to teach Hi. But he had to go in the house to his supper, and he saw Hi being jerked along roughly by the arm and heard the angry words his uncle said to him. Within the house, Azalea was lying on the settle in his mother’s clean kitchen. She looked small and white-faced, and her large eyes, which followed Ma McBirney everywhere, were more than ever like “Job’s tears.” She came to the table when Ma McBirney called her, but she could eat nothing—only drink a little of the warm milk, and her hand trembled so that she could hardly hold the cup to her lips. And neither was Ma McBirney eating. Her face was white, too, and her eyes full of trouble. Jim knew very well what the matter was. She couldn’t bear to have this nice little girl go away in the company of “bad folks”—for that was how Mary McBirney would call the show people. Almost nothing was said while they were at the table, but when supper was over Pa McBirney remarked: “Me and you’ll wash up the dishes to-night, Jim.” “Ain’t ma well?” Jim asked. “Ma’s well enough, but she’s got something better to do,” was all the answer he got. Pa began washing the dishes, and Jim wondered why it was that he made such a noise about it. Jim was told to build up more fire, too, which seemed strange, for the room was quite warm enough. But he did as he was told. The door stood open onto the porch-like room, but no one could see in unless he came up on the porch, for the solid wooden window shutters had been closed. The fire set up a great crackling, and that and the rattling of the dishes made it seem as if a great deal was going on there in the room. But, really, not very much was going on, for Ma McBirney and Azalea had slipped out of the back door and had not come back again. Outside, the voices of the men and the stamping of the horses could be heard, and by and by some one called: “Hulloa there! Hulloa, I say!” “Hulloa!” answered Jim’s father. “We’re ready to go,” called the other voice. “All right,” answered Pa McBirney. “I wish you luck.” One of the show women came up on the porch and looked in the door. “We’ll take that girl off your hands now,” she said, “and thank you for your trouble.” “No trouble at all, ma’am,” said pa politely. “A pleasure, ma’am.” “If you’ll just tell me where she is,” Betty Bowen went on, looking into the room and seeing no one there but Jim and his father, “I’ll go for her.” “It’s my impression,” said pa slowly, “that my wife and the girl walked on down the mountain a piece. If you’ll follow the road maybe you’ll catch up with ’em. Maybe.” “See here!” said Mrs. Bowen angrily. “I want that there girl and I want her quick.” “It don’t seem as if we did anything very quick up here,” said pa gently. “It’s our way to take our time about things.” The woman looked at pa and her face turned red. Then she said some things that Jim wondered at, and after that she went for the men. They came storming back, and Sisson wedged himself in the doorway. “Where’s that girl, McBirney?” he demanded. “I don’t seem to rightly know,” said pa, with his slowest drawl. “Where’s your old woman, then?” “Well, I don’t know that, neither.” “Where one is, the other is,” cried the woman. “She’s stole that girl, that’s what she’s done.” “She’d have hard work a-stealing her,” objected Pa McBirney, “when she don’t belong to no one.” “You’ll find out whether she belongs to anyone or not,” Sisson cried, shaking his fist at pa. “You can’t come it over us that way. We told you that you couldn’t have the girl and we mean it.” “Well,” said pa in his most reasonable voice, “I hain’t took the girl.” “Your wife has, and that’s the same thing. And you’ll have to give her up or there’ll be trouble.” “What my wife does and what I do are two different things,” pa went on teasingly. “I’m telling you the truth when I say I don’t know where them women folks has gone.” Sisson strode into the room at that, trembling with rage, and as he did so, in at the rear door of the room lounged William Sabin, one of the mountaineers, and behind him Tom Williams and after him Dick Bab. Jim thought he saw other forms looming up in the darkness without. “See here, sonny,” whispered Jim’s father to him, “you just kind o’ slip out of that there window above the bench till we get this little affair settled one way or t’other.” And Jim, seeing that his father meant to be obeyed, jumped on the wooden bench, loosed the catch of the board shutter, and crawled out onto the pile of saplings that was stacked against the outer wall. He could hear his heart beating, and he tried not to think what might happen in the next few minutes. He had heard of quarrels in mountain cabins that ended in a terrible way. He wished in the bottom of his heart that those show people had never come near them, and that his mother had never seen that girl. He could hear his father’s voice going on in its pleasant singsong way. “These here friends of mine,” he was saying, “thought to do a little shooting to-night. We’ve been put about by some spit cats hollering at night, and we thought to get after ’em. But you mustn’t hurry away on that account. There’s lots of time—all the time there is—and we’ll see you down the mountain a piece if you like.” Jim heard Betty Bowen call: “Come along, boys. It ain’t worth it,” and then he saw Sisson and the others backing out of the room. They got on their wagons, grumbling and swearing among themselves, while the mountaineers came out and stood watching them, the fire gleaming through the door upon the guns they had brought to hunt the “spit cats.” “Did I understand you to say that you’d like our company for a piece?” drawled Pa McBirney as the show people swung their lanterns beside their wagons and called to their horses to move on. “You think you’re mighty smart,” yelled Sisson. “But you wait! Just you wait!” “Kidnapper!” sneered one of the women. “And your woman—looked too good to believe, she did.” “There’s some mighty sharp turns on the road,” said pa politely. “And maybe me and my friends had best see you on the way. We’ve got some neighbors ’waiting for us a piece on. I’d best whistle for ’em, I reckon.” But if he whistled, it was not heard for the noise as the wagons went rattling down the road. For a long time Jim could hear the sound of the hoofs and the squeak of the brakes and the angry voices of the show people. Meantime, the mountain men had gone back into the kitchen and lighted their pipes. They seemed to have but little to say to each other, and Jim, peeping in at the door, was startled to see each man lift his gun. But his father roared at them and they dropped them with smiles. “I’ve got to know where ma is,” cried Jim, running to his father. “There ain’t any harm coming to ma, is there?” “Not as I know of, son. Your ma’s a smart woman and a set one. When she wants to do a thing she most generally does it.” “But where is she, dad?” “That’s what I can’t pre-cisely say, son. All I know is she didn’t mean for to let that purty little girl go off with them wildcats. She’s set her heart on keeping her in Molly’s place, and we’ve set our hearts on having her. That’s all.” That was quite all. The mountaineers sat so that they faced the two open doors and the one open window. They appeared to be enjoying themselves after their fashion. Jim looked out at the dark mountain side and the dense forest, from which a strange whispering as of a thousand voices seemed to come. He knew that wild creatures lived on that mountain, and that terrible, sudden storms sometimes arose and raged over it. He knew, too, how the trails crossed and recrossed each other, and how unfamiliar they looked in the night. It would be very easy for his mother to lose her way, for she kept to the house much more than most of the women on the mountain. He kept saying to himself over and over: “I hope she’s safe; I hope she’s safe.” And aloud he said: “While we was about it, I wisht we’d a-taken that there boy. He was a awful smart boy.” “Sho!” said pa. “I wisht we had, too.” CHAPTER III IN HIDING “It’s only a little way farther now, dear. I’m sure it’s only a little way.” “A little way to where, please ma’am?” Azalea gasped the question. She was spent with hard climbing, and her heart pounded in her side. The steep path before her was dark and rough. There was only the stars and a small crescent moon to give them light. “I wouldn’t dare to carry a lantern—not to-night,” Ma McBirney had explained. “We’ll have to find our way in the dark this time.” It seemed to Azalea that it was hours since they began “finding their way.” They had slipped out of the back door of the cabin when the people were at their supper, had crouched and crept along the path past the spring house and taken a trail that ran up to the pine grove. From there on they had been winding this way and that, always climbing and climbing till the pain in the girl’s side was almost more than she could stand. Ma McBirney seemed about ready to drop too. Azalea could hear her breath coming almost in sobs. Yet she pushed on, and when Azalea begged her to rest she would only say: “In a little while, my dear. In just a little while.” It began to thunder far off, and sheets of lightning threw a strange pinkish glow over their path now and then. “Don’t you worry none about that there lightning,” Ma McBirney said to the girl whose hand she held so tight in her own that it hurt. “It will swing off around the mountain, like as not. Anyway we’ll be there before it comes.” “Where, please ma’am?” asked Azalea again. And again Ma McBirney did not answer, but pressed on along the path. She seemed now to be walking on the very rim of a great bench, and Azalea couldn’t help feeling that if the people were looking for them, they could see them standing out against the sky when the lightning flashed over the mountain. Perhaps Ma McBirney feared the same thing. At any rate, she stooped over almost double as she walked. She could not hold Azalea’s hand as they crept along this narrow path, but she told the little girl to hold tight to her skirt. So they went on in the rising of the wind, their way lightened by the increasing flashes of lightning. Fortunately, though, they were walking on ground that was almost level, and it gave their pounding hearts a chance to quiet a little. Then, suddenly, Azalea saw looming up before her a great mass of rock. “Here we are!” cried Mrs. McBirney. She began feeling around in the dark, and then, a great flash of lightning showed something on the rock that was blacker than either the night or the stone. “Here it is!” she cried. “Here’s the way in!” And the girl, still holding onto that motherly skirt, crept after Mary McBirney through an opening in the rock, down three rude stairs, along a dark, damp place and through another narrower opening. Ma McBirney struck a match and lit a little lantern. “Well,” she said. “Here we are!” Azalea looked about her. Their feet rested on bare earth, and on every side of them arose stone walls. From them hung queer, mouse-like creatures and horrid spiders and long beetles. Two benches of stone ran along the side, and a sort of fireplace had been made of broken pieces of rock, above which a little crack in the roof served as chimney. “We ain’t the first that has hid here,” said Mrs. McBirney looking around. “And likely we won’t be the last. No one but mountain folk knows about this place, and they ain’t telling. Make yourself to home Azalea, for this is where we’re going to stay till them friends of yours is tired of looking for us.” Azalea drew up nearer to the woman and hid her face against her bosom. “Why, what’s the matter, you little poor thing?” cried Mrs. McBirney. “You’re not minding a few little bats and spiders, be you? I’ll get them out in no time.” “No, no!” almost shrieked the girl. “Don’t touch them, please! They’ll fall down on us!” “Why, what’s this I hear?” demanded ma. “A girl that’s been plumb up against all kinds of trouble, getting scared at a few little beasties! You ain’t seeming no ways brave to me.” “But thousands of yellow spiders, ma’am! And hundreds of bats! All above our heads, too. I hate it! I just hate it.” “If it wasn’t for the storm, dear, we’d lie on the ground outside,” said Mrs. McBirney. “But there, there! It’s come, you see. We’ve got to stay here.” As she spoke the wild downpour of the rain could be heard, sweeping along over the mountain, and the next instant it was roaring about them. They could feel the spray of it dashing in from the outer chamber and here and there through crevices in the rock above them. They seemed terribly alone there on that mountain top in their resounding cavern, and Ma McBirney was not surprised that the girl who had gone through such fearful experiences that day should throw herself into her arms and weep. Mary McBirney held her close and soothed her with soft pattings and caresses. She couldn’t make her voice heard above the storm, but she knew there were other things besides words with which she could comfort the poor child. They were both very tired. Their limbs trembled from the long, hard climb and from the dread of the storm, and when Ma McBirney spread her great circular cape on the ground they were glad enough to lie down on it. They covered themselves with it too—even their heads, and after a little while, with the storm still bellowing without, they fell asleep. Jim and his father heard the uproar and turned in their beds and shivered. In fact, Jim couldn’t stand it in bed alone, but crept into his father’s room. “You reckon ma’s hid somewhere out of this?” Jim asked. “Sure!” cried pa, drawing Jim into bed beside him. “Sure she is. Her and that there girl is as dry as a bone somewhere, sitting laughing at all this fuss of rain.” But when Jim had fallen asleep, soothed by these words, Pa McBirney got up and walked the floor until morning. Then he cooked Jim’s breakfast and his own, and packed a basket with food. “We-all will be taking a little stroll,” he said. “Just hand me down my rifle, sonny. Maybe we might see something we’d like for dinner on the way.” He went out of the back door, bidding Jim keep close beside him, and looked around for quite a while before starting on the up trail; and then he kept away from the wood trail and took the one that led up the face of the rocks—one which no one but a mountaineer could find or follow. His footsteps appeared on the freshly-washed earth only as far as the spring. From there on, there was no trace of him and his boy, and anyone who came looking for them would indeed have hard work to follow. “There was talk of them show folks setting up the merry-go-round and all the rest of the contraptions down there at Lee to-day,” said pa. “I only hope they’ll do it and not go turning their attention to things that don’t concern them.” Once or twice as Jim and his father came out upon some rocky ledge of the mountain the boy peered down into the valley to see if he could catch sight of tents or wagons, but all below them was wrapped in a wonderful lilac mist. And anyway, he had not much time to give to these matters. He was thinking of where his mother would be found, and wondering how it was that his father kept such a sure course. Not an idea of where his mother could be entered the boy’s head, but he knew there were secret hiding places on the mountains, of which children were not told, and he was right in thinking that his mother had gone to one of these. After a long time he said: “Where you heading for, pa?” “Well,” said pa, “your ma thought best not to tell me where she was going. She wanted me to speak up truthful and say I didn’t know her whereabouts. But it wouldn’t take many guesses for me to locate her in Conscript Den.” “What’s that?” asked Jim, staring at his father with open eyes and mouth. “Well, that’s a place that all the old folks about here knows of very well. It’s been used by a good many one time and another, but the first time I know of its being used was when old Colonel Atherton tried to conscript a lot of young men down there in Lee, to force ’em to join the Southern army in 1862. Some of these here men was for the Union and they didn’t take to the idea of fighting with the South. Anyway, I don’t think they was much interested either way. They just wanted to be left alone to work their little farms and be let mind their own business. But they didn’t believe in slavery. It wasn’t in ’em to do that. They was liberty loving people, and if anything, a little too independent in their ways for their own good, maybe.” “Think so?” said Jim. He had his own ideas about independence. “So twenty young men that was conscripted run up here and hid, and slipped down the mountain nights and got food; and they picked berries and stoned rabbits and I don’t know what all. But even so they didn’t have much and they was almost skin and bone when the searchin’ party found them.” “And when they found ’em, what did they do?” Pa seemed not to have heard and walked on even faster than he had been walking, which was quite unnecessary, for though Jim could run along like a squirrel, he was almost out of breath trying to keep up with his father. Now, however, he made a dash and caught at his father’s suspender. “And what did they do with ’em dad?” “They took ’em down to Lee, Jim, and stood ’em up in the public square—them twenty young chaps, some of ’em not more than eighteen—and their old neighbors faced up there in double file and shot ’em down.” “What!” cried Jim. “Had to, boy. _Had to_! Military law. The old colonel made ’em.” “Oh!” “But that finished him. He lived down there in that big shut-up place they call The Shoals. You know it. It ain’t been opened in your day, but it’s a grand old house. Well, after the old colonel had made the people do the thing I told you about, the countryside was up and buzzing like a nest of hornets, and old colonel, he had to black his face and put on women’s clothes and hike out. And his wife went back to Alabama where she come from, and nobody heard of the Athertons any more.” “And are there any folks living at Lee now that did the shooting?” Pa McBirney stopped to get his breath, and he looked about him at the lovely day, at the shining woods and the down-plunging stream. Then he dropped on a convenient rock and motioned Jim to sit beside him. “I’m a-going to tell you something, Jim,” he said, “that I want you to remember. Us mountain folks has got a bad name in some ways. Folks say we’re shiftless—some of us—and revengeful. But do you know what the people down at Lee done after old Colonel Atherton was run out? They got together and they took an oath never, no matter what come, to carry on the story of that dreadful thing. They said they wouldn’t speak of it nor hand it on to their children, nor wage war nor nurse hard feelings. So who done the shooting and who was shot is something I don’t know and don’t want to know. My father knew, and what he knew turned him old before his time. And I remember hearing about an older brother, and never was I told about his end. So maybe your own uncle was one of them poor martyrs. But it don’t matter now. It’s all healed up, like the hole the fire burned in that there chestnut. It’s healed up in brotherly love, and if you was to go to Lee and ask any questions about that there rumpus, you’d get your trouble for your pains. They’d pretend they didn’t know what you was talking about. And the young people, they don’t know any more about it than just that it happened, and they’ve married and intermarried, till them that was forced to be slayers and them that was slain have their names passed on in the same family. And I’m proud of it, Jim, and want you to know it, and to say to folks, when they hold out that we’re a quarrelsome people, that we’re a forgiving people too.” Jim didn’t answer. He sat close beside his father for a while, listening to the gentle sounds of the forest and the falling water. And then the two got up and went on. At length, amid a fine grove of chestnuts, Jim beheld the same pile of rocks that had loomed up before the tired eyes of Azalea the night before, and he followed his father around into a cranny of them and saw the same doorway she had seen. “Mary,” called pa softly. “Mary! Be you there!” For a moment there was no answer, and then, as he called again, a frightened voice replied: “Is it you, Tom? Have you got a light? My, it’s dark here, and we’ve been sleeping till now.” Jim could hardly keep from whooping with delight, and the next moment he and his father had crept through the first half-open chamber, into the dark inner one, where ma and Azalea sat up on the big coat, rubbing their eyes and blinking at the light from the lantern which ma had blown out as they lay down to rest the night before, and which pa had just relighted. Jim never forgot the strange look of everything—of the cave with its rough walls, of the bats and spiders and beetles, of his mother, sitting there on the ground, all bewildered and strange-looking, and of the girl who clung to her and shuddered. “Get out of here! Get out of here!” called Pa McBirney cheerily. “It’s a fine day outside.” And he helped his wife and Azalea to their feet and led them outside. “Best not build a fire,” he said. “We’ll have to lie low a day or two till them show folks get out of the way. I cooked the bacon before I come, and I brought the coffee in a pail. It was hot when I started, but I reckon it’s cold enough now. But here’s plenty of biscuit, and a jar of gooseberry jam, and some of them star cookies and some hard-boiled eggs and a few radishes and some cold potatoes—” “My goodness, Thomas!” cried his wife. “Did you think we had turned into wolves because we was living in a den?” “Well you see, Mary, this here will have to last you all of to-day and perhaps a part of to-morrow. There’s no telling just what will happen. I might be penned up down there, with men watching me, and then you’d want a little stock of stuff laid by.” Jim had moved over toward Azalea, and now the two stood side by side staring at the older people. Pa might be penned up, and ma, who was hiding in a den, might go hungry! Did such things really happen? Jim turned and gazed at the girl, and he couldn’t help thinking how pretty she was, with her oval face and her great gray eyes and her long braids of brown hair. She looked as if she could run as well as a boy and ride a horse as well, or maybe better. Suddenly an idea came to him. “Say!” he burst out. “You’re glad you’re with us, ain’t you? You don’t wish you’d gone on with them other folks?” “Glad!” said the girl. “Of course I’m glad. I never want to see them again—never, never!” Her gray eyes turned almost black, and she straightened her thin little figure till, in Jim’s words, she was like a ramrod. “Peter!” thought Jim. “I wouldn’t like to get her mad at me.” She wouldn’t be a good one to tease, Jim made up his mind. Jim saw that his mother was watching the girl, too, and he knew how his mother hated anything like bad temper and he wondered if she would like Azalea as well when she saw that she could be “peppery.” But all she said was: “Azalea, I know a place where there’s a spring of water. Pa’s brought us a towel and some soap and a comb. We’ll go down to the spring and make ready for breakfast.” So the two went off together, and Jim and his father spread the breakfast out on a sort of table-rock. Then they sat down to their breakfast, and whether it was the strangeness of the night and the wildness of the place and the beauty of the morning, or whether it was fun in its way, being outlaws and in hiding, who can say? But as the meal went on they began to laugh and talk as they seldom did even when there was company; and Azalea couldn’t keep from laughing either. There was something hushed and sad about her face, and when she spoke, her voice had a break in it, for her terrible sorrow lay heavily upon her heart. Yet, as she had said to Ma McBirney the night before, she had known for a long time that her mother could not live, and she had thought how, after her mother was gone, she herself must go on, taking the rough treatment the show men had given her, and riding bareback on those poor thin horses, and doing tricks for people who called out horrible things to her. Now she felt safe, and even there in that wild place, more at home perhaps than she ever had felt before in her life. After a time Jim and his father went away, but not before they had gone in the cave and killed or driven out every creature in it. They made a sort of broom right on the spot before Azalea’s astonished eyes, and brushed the place and cleaned it; and pa pried back a big stone on top and let the sunlight in. And then he asked ma how she was going to put in her time. “Just sitting still,” said ma. “I never saw you sit still yet, Mary,” said pa. “I don’t believe you can do it.” “Yes I can, Thomas. Don’t you worry. I can sit and sit and I’m going to. It’s years since I’ve had a quiet spell and it looks like this was my time to take it.” “Seeing’s believing,” said pa. And laughing and telling ma not to worry about anything, he and Jim turned down the trail. “Let’s get nearer the waterfall,” said ma to Azalea. So they went to a place where a great flat rock ran out into the mountain stream, and here they sat with the water tossing and leaping past them and hurling itself over the side of the mountain. Ma lay down and put her hands under her head and looked straight up through the branches of an overhanging beech, into the soft blue sky. And Azalea pillowed her head on her arm and lay there too. A long time passed and neither spoke. It was enough to listen to the voices of the mountain, to watch the sailing of the clouds and the winging of the birds. But after a time ma reached out and touched Azalea gently. “Little girl,” she said, “little daughter!” “Ma’am?” “I’ve been a-thinking and a-thinking, and it seems to me it’s a queer world.” “Yes’m, it is,” said Azalea as if she too had settled that fact in her mind. “Some things that seem wrong is right, and some that everybody—or almost everybody—says is right, is really, when you come down to it, plumb wrong.” “I reckon that’s so, ma’am.” “Now, me taking you in the way I did—grabbing you away from the folks you’d known and been with—that might look wrong. But it ain’t, Azalea, it ain’t! You want to know how I know it ain’t wrong?” “If you please, ma’am.” “Well, first of all I reasoned it out. You was better in a house than on the road. You was better living where you could go to school than where you’d slave for people who’d give you no education. You was better with people who’d take you to church and read the Scriptures to you than with people who’d swear and curse and drink and gamble. And most of all, you was better with them that would love and cherish you than with them that would just use you, and perhaps bring you to some harm and turn you off when they got through with you.” “Oh, yes’m! I know, ma’am. I’m thankful—” “I don’t want you bothering to be thankful, Azalea. I just want you to be loving. But I haven’t said what I wanted to say. It ain’t reason that tells me I’ve done right. It’s something else.” There was a little pause, and then she went on: “It’s something I wouldn’t like to speak of to everyone, Azalea. But you see, you’re going to take Molly’s place with me, and I’m going to begin right away treating you as if you was her.” “Thank you, ma’am.” “Well, now this thing—its like a little bird singing in my heart. Ever since I was a little girl, times would come when that little bird would begin singing. Maybe ’twould be a pretty day and me down washing clothes at the spring; maybe ’twould be something preacher said in church; maybe ’twould be Jimmy shouting and hollering out in the woods, or his pa coming up the trail and letting out a yell to tell me he was on the way. But when the bird sang best, dear, was when I’d done something that I knew I ought to do and that it was hard to do. Now it was hard for me to take you away from those folks, for I don’t like to run counter to no one. I like friends and I hate foes, and I had to make foes of them people. But they wouldn’t listen to what was right and reasonable, and I had to do the way I done. But all last night when we was climbing the trail in the dark, and when the storm got us, and when we lay in that filthy den, and most of all this morning when I woke up and found you there beside me, the bird was singing in my heart. It sings sweeter than any of these here birds round about, though they sing sweet enough, goodness knows. But it’s just as if something new was come into the world—it’s just as it was the day Jimmy was born and lay on my arm and I knew I had a little son of my own. Why, it’s just the way it was the day I found I had a Saviour, and learned that the love of my Heavenly Father was round about me, and that I could walk in it and fear nothing. Did you ever feel like that, Azalea?” The girl turned her great eyes on her. “No’m, I don’t think I ever did.” “Well, you will, Azalea, you will! I’m going to tell you all about that. I’m going to tell you every good thing I know. And you must tell me all you know, too, for I’m an unschooled woman, who’s worked hard and not seen much. But anyway, even for me, I can see that life has trails that lead up the mountain. Don’t you like to be here on the mountain top, child?” “Oh, I do, ma’am. I think it’s the most beautiful place I ever did see!” “Well, and I was studying about your poor ma. Just think, to-day whatever there is to know over beyond life, she’s knowing. She was brave, wasn’t she
_ and the Annuals; privately printed _Poems_ 8 series, _8 vols._ 1830–62; _An appeal on behalf of governesses_, her longest poem gained first prize offered for literary productions on that subject, (_m._ Rev. John Channing Abdy, R. of St. John’s Southwark who _d._ 27 Jany. 1845 aged 52.) _d._ 7 Upper Marine terrace, Margate 19 July 1867 aged 70. _bur._ St. Peter’s church yard Isle of Thanet. ABDY, SIR THOMAS NEVILLE, 1 Baronet (_only son of Anthony Thomas Abdy, captain R.N. who d. 9 June 1838, by Grace dau. of admiral Sir Thomas Rich_). _b._ 21 Dec. 1810; ed. at St. John’s coll. Cam., B.A. 1833; M.P. for Lyme Regis, (lib.) 30 July 1847–1 July 1852; cr. baronet 8 Jan. 1850; sheriff of Essex 1875. (_m._ 19 Oct. 1841 Harriet 2nd dau. of Rowland Alston, M.P. of Pishiobury, Herts, she _d._ 8 July 1877.) _d._ 6 Grosvenor place, London 20 July 1877. ABDY, SIR WILLIAM, 7 Baronet. _b._ 1779; succeeded 21 July 1803. _d._ 20b. Hill st. London 15 Apl. 1868. A’BECKETT, ARTHUR MARTIN (_youngest son of Wm. A’Beckett of Golden square, London, long known as the Reform solicitor, who d. 23 Feb. 1855 aged 77, by his 1 wife Sarah who d. 25 Aug. 1817_). _b._ Golden square, London 1812; ed. at London univ. 1834 and at Paris; M.R.C.S. 9 March 1838, F.R.C.S. 13 Dec. 1855, M.D.; Staff surgeon to British legion in Spain; on staff of Sir De Lacy Evans 1835–37; arrived in Sydney 1838; practised there 1838–58; member of legislative council of N.S.W. to 1858; knight of San Ferdinand; F.R.G.S. 1860. (_m._ 15 May 1838 Emma Louisa 1 dau. of Marsham Elwin of Thirning, Norfolk, she was _b._ 26 Aug. 1814). _d._ Sydney 23 May 1871. _Medical Times and Gazette, ii_, 263 (1871); _Heads of the people, ii_, 83 (1848) _pt._ A’BECKETT, GILBERT ABBOT (_2 son of Wm. A’Beckett of Golden sq._) _b._ The Grange, Haverstock hill, London 9 Jany. 1811. ed. at Westminster school; sole proprietor of following periodicals, _The terrific penny magazine_, _The Ghost_, _The Lover_, _The gallery of terrors_, _The Figaro_ monthly newspaper, and _The Figaro_ caricature gallery; proprietor with Thomas Littleton Holt of following periodicals, _The evangelical penny magazine_, _Dibdin’s penny trumpet_, _The thief_, _Poor Richard’s journal_, and _The people’s penny pictures_; student at Gray’s Inn 25 Apl. 1828; dramatic critic of the _Weekly Despatch_; edited _Figaro in London_ comic weekly paper, 160 numbers 1 Dec. 1831 to 27 Dec. 1834; joint manager with Edward Mayhew of the Fitzroy theatre, Fitzroy st. Tottenham court road, London 1834 where he produced his first burlesque Glaucus and Scylla; edited _The Wag_ 1837, and _The Squib_ 1842, comic weekly papers; one of the original staff of _Punch or the London Charivari_, which appeared 17 July 1841, wrote in it from number 4 to his death; wrote leading articles in _The Times_ one year, and in _Morning Herald_; wrote humorous articles in _Pictorial Times_; barrister G.I. 27 Jany 1841; poor Law comr. to inquire into iniquities practised in Andover union, March 1846; magistrate at Greenwich and Woolwich police court, Feb. 1849, and at Southwark, Dec. 1849 to death; went to Boulogne 17 July 1856; author of _Scenes from the rejected comedies_, a series of parodies upon living dramatists 1844; _The quizziology of the British drama_ 1846; _The comic Blackstone_ 1846; _The comic history of England_, _2 vols._ 1847–8; _The comic history of Rome_ 1852; wrote more than 50 plays; dramatised with Mark Lemon, Dickens’s novel “_The Chimes_,” produced at Adelphi theatre 19 Dec. 1844. (_m._ about 1836 Mary Anne eld. dau. of Joseph Glossop, she was granted a civil list pension of £100, 23 Oct. 1856. She _m._ (2) George Jones, barrister, and _d._ 11 Dec. 1863 aged 46). _d._ of typhus fever at Rue Neuve Chaussée, Boulogne 30 Aug. 1856, body removed to Highgate cemetery. _The Critic, xv._ 436 (1856); _Mr. Punch, his origin and career_ 1870; _Alfred Bunn’s A word with Punch_ 1847, _pp._ 5–7 _pt._; _I.L.N. xxx_, 570 (1857), _view of his tomb in Highgate cemetery_. NOTE.—There is a portrait of him by Leech in his two page cartoon, called “Mr. Punch’s fancy ball” in _Punch_ 9 Jany. 1847, where he is represented as playing the violin in the orchestra between the double bass and the clarionet. His first contribution to _Punch_, entitled “The above bridge navy,” appeared in No. 4, 7 Aug. 1841 with John Leech’s earliest cartoon, “Foreign Affairs.” A’BECKETT, SIR WILLIAM (_eld. son of Wm. A’Beckett of Golden square_). _b._ London 28 July 1806; ed. at Westminster; barrister L.I. 30 June 1829; went to Sydney 1837; solicitor general of New South Wales 1841; a judge of court of N.S.W. 24 Nov. 1845; resident judge at Port Philip 3 Feb. 1846; chief justice and judge of admiralty court of Victoria 25 Aug. 1851; knighted by patent 19 Nov. 1852; returned to England 1858; author of great part of _The Georgian Era_ 4 vols. 1832–34; of _Universal biography_ _3 vols._ 1840; and of _The Earl’s choice and other poems_ 1863. (_m._ (1) 1832 Emily dau. of E. Hayley, she _d._ 1 June 1841. _m._ (2) 1849 Matilda dau. of E. Hayley, she _d._ 8 Aug. 1879 aged 64). _d._ Abbotsville, Upper Norwood, Surrey 27 June 1869. NOTE.—He edited at Sydney from 1837–38 a periodical called the Literary News, of which no copies are supposed to be now in existence. ABELL, LUCIA ELIZABETH (_2 dau. of Wm. Balcombe, navy agent, purveyor to Napoleon Bonaparte at St. Helena, and afterwards the colonial treasurer of N.S.W. who d. 19 March 1829_). Author of _Recollections of the Emperor Napoleon during the first three years of his captivity on the island of St. Helena_ 1848, including the time of his residence at her father’s house, “the Briars.” (_m._ Edward Abell). _d._ 18 Chester terrace, Eaton sq. London 29 June 1871. _Recollections of the Emperor Napoleon 3rd ed._ 1873, _pt._ Of Mrs. Abell. ABERCROMBY, GEORGE RALPH ABERCROMBY, 3 Baron. _b._ Edinburgh 30 May 1800; M.P. for Clackmannan, (whig) 13 July 1824–2 June 1826, 10 Aug. 1830–23 April 1831, and 6 July 1841–18 Feb. 1842; M.P. for Stirlingshire 30 April 1838–23 June 1841; major 3 dragoon guards 22 June 1826–21 Nov. 1828; succeeded 14 Feb. 1843; lord lieutenant of Clackmannan 1843 to death; was blind. _d._ Airthney castle, Stirling 25 June 1852. ABERCROMBY, THE HONBLE. ALEXANDER, _b._ 4 March 1784; ensign 52 foot 16 Aug. 1799; lieut. col. 28 foot 8 Dec. 1808–25 July 1814; commanded a brigade at battle of Albuera 16 May 1811; captain Coldstream guards 25 July 1814–25 Oct. 1821, when placed on half pay on reduction of regiment; C.B. 4 June 1815; K.M.T.; K.T.S.; K.S.G.; M.P. for co. Clackmannan 11 April 1817–10 June 1818. _d._ at his country seat in Scotland 27 Aug. 1853. _Napier’s Peninsular War, book xii, chapters 6 and 7._ ABERCROMBY, SIR GEORGE SAMUEL, 6 baronet. _b._ Edinburgh 22 May 1824; succeeded 6 July 1855. _d._ Forglen house, Turriff Banffshire 15 Nov. 1872. ABERCROMBY, SIR ROBERT, 5 baronet. _b._ Forglen house, Banffshire 4 Feb. 1784; M.P. for Banffshire 2 Nov. 1812–10 June 1818; succeeded 18 July 1831. _d._ Forglen house 6 July 1855. ABERDEEN, GEORGE HAMILTON GORDON, 4 Earl of (_1 son of George Gordon, styled Lord Haddo 1764–91, by Charlotte, youngest dau. of Wm. Baird of Newbyth, co. Haddington, she d. 8 Oct. 1795_). _b._ Edinburgh 28 Jany. 1784; ed. at Harrow, and St. John’s coll. Cam., M.A. 1804; succeeded his grandfather 13 Aug. 1801; visited Greece, Turkey and Russia; founded Athenian society 1804, of which no one might be a member who had not visited Athens; rep. peer Scotland 15 Dec. 1806–1 June 1814; K.T. 16 March 1808; ambassador to Vienna 29 July 1813–April 1814, when he prevailed with the Emperor to join the allied sovereigns against Napoleon by treaty of Toplitz 9 Sep. 1813; present at battles of Dresden and Leipsic; signed treaty of peace at Paris 1 June 1814; created a peer of the U.K. as Viscount Gordon of Aberdeen, co. Aberdeen 1 June 1814; P.C. 23 July 1814; took name of Hamilton before that of Gordon by royal license 13 Nov. 1818; chancellor of univ. of Aberdeen 1827; chancellor of duchy of Lancaster 26 Jan. 1828–2 June 1828; sec. of state for foreign affairs 2 June 1828–2 Nov. 1830 and 2 Sep. 1841–5 July 1846; sec. of state for the colonies 5 June 1834–18 April 1835; ranger of Greenwich park 1 Feb. 1845; lord lieut. of Aberdeenshire 23 April 1846; first lord of the treasury 28 Dec. 1852–1 Feb. 1855; an elder brother of Trinity house Nov. 1853–54; a comr. for executing office of treasurer of exchequer of Great Britain, and lord high treasurer of Ireland 6 Mch. 1854; president of Society of Antiquaries 1812–46; F.R.S. 28 April 1808, F.R.G.S. 1830, K.G. 7 Feb. 1855; visited by the Queen at Haddo house, 15 Oct. 1857; author of _Inquiry into principles of beauty in Grecian architecture_, 1822. (_m._ (1) 28 July 1805 Catherine Elizabeth, 3 dau. of John James Hamilton, 1 Marquess of Abercorn, she was _b._ 10 Jan. 1784, and _d._ 29 Feb. 1812. _m._ (2) 8 July 1815 Harriet, 2 dau. of honble. John Douglas and widow of James Hamilton, eld. son of 1 Marquess of Abercorn, she was _b._ 8 June 1792, and _d._ 26 Aug. 1833). _d._ 7 Argyll st. Regent st. London 14 Dec. 1860. _bur._ in family vault at Stanmore 21 Dec. _Correspondence of Earl of Aberdeen 1850–53_, _privately printed_ 1880; _Edinburgh Review_, _clviii_, 547–77 (1883); _Thirty years of foreign policy_ 1854; _Proc. of Royal Society of Edin. iv_, 477–83 (1862); _The British cabinet in 1853_, _pp._ 7–43, _pt._; _Jerdan’s National portrait gallery_, _vol._ 3, _pt._; _I.L.N. i_, 461 (1842), _xx_, 1, (1853) _xxxvii_, 635 (1860) _pts._; _A.R._ (1860) 376–83. NOTE.—Lord Byron in his “English bards and Scotch reviewers,” refers to him as “The travelled Thane, Athenian Aberdeen.” He was allowed the very rare distinction of being permitted to retain the order of the Thistle, together with that of the Garter. Exclusive of royalty, 12 Knights of the Thistle (since the re-establishment of the order in 1687), have been elected to the Garter, of these 12 only 4 have retained both orders. ABERDEEN, GEORGE JOHN JAMES HAMILTON-GORDON, 5 Earl of. _b._ Bentley priory, Stanmore 28 Sep. 1816; ed. privately, and at Trin. coll. Cam., M.A. 1837; attaché at Constantinople 1837; M.P. Aberdeenshire (lib.) 22 Aug. 1854–14 Dec. 1860, when he succeeded; went to Egypt, Sep. 1854, and June 1860; went to Madrid, May 1863 to petition Queen of Spain for a remission of sentence on Manuel Matamoros, (who was sentenced to 9 years penal servitude for preaching Protestantism, he was eventually exiled from Spain, he was _b._ Malaga, Oct. 1834 and _d._ Lausanne, 31 July 1866.) _d._ Haddo house, Aberdeenshire 22 March 1864. _bur._ Methlie churchyard 29 March. _Memoir of Lord Haddo by Rev. E. B. Elliott, 6 ed._ 1873; _The true nobility by Alexander Duff_ 1868; _I.L.N. xxiv_, 265 (1854) _pt._ ABERDEEN, GEORGE HAMILTON-GORDON, 6 Earl of. _b._ 10 Dec. 1841; succeeded 22 March 1864; one of the Scotch 8 in rifle competition at Wimbledon for Elcho challenge shield 1864 and 1865; dropped his title and adopted name of George H. Osborne about 22 May 1866; sailor in American merchant service June 1866 to death; sailed from Boston for Melbourne in the ship “Hera” 21 Jany. 1870, washed overboard and drowned in latitude 40˝10´, longitude 58˝14´, 27 Jany. 1870. _Memoir of Lord Haddo, by Rev. E. B. Elliott, 6 ed. 1873_, 315–28; _Sir Bernard Burke’s Reminiscences_ (1882) 201–26. ABERGAVENNY, REV. WILLIAM NEVILL, 4 Earl of. _b._ 28 June 1792; succeeded 12 April 1845. _d._ Birling manor near Maidstone 17 Aug. 1868. NOTE.—His personalty was sworn under £300,000 Oct. 1868. ABINGDON, MONTAGU BERTIE, 5 Earl of. _b._ 30 April 1784; succeeded 26 Sept. 1799; cupbearer at coronation of George iv 19 July 1821; lord lieut. of Berkshire 1828 to death. _d._ Wytham abbey, Berkshire 16 Oct. 1854. _bur._ at Rycote 24 Oct. ABINGDON, MONTAGU BERTIE, 6 earl of. _b._ Dover st. Piccadilly 19 June 1808; ed. at Eton and Trin. coll. Cam., M.A. 1829, D.C.L. Ox. 1834; M.P. Oxfordshire (tory) 5 Aug. 1830–23 April 1831, and 17 Dec. 1832–1 July 1852, for Abingdon 3 Dec. 1852–16 Oct. 1854, when he succeeded; lord lieut. of Berkshire 13 Feb. 1855–1881. _d._ 18 Grosvenor st. London 8 Feb. 1884. _bur._ Wytham abbey 13 Feb. ABINGER, ROBERT CAMPBELL SCARLETT, 2 Baron. _b._ London 5 Sep. 1794; barrister I.T. 27 Nov. 1818; M.P. Norwich (conserv.) 7 Jany. 1835–17 July 1837, for Horsham 28 June 1841–7 April 1844, when he succeeded; envoy ex. and min. plen. to Tuscany 13 Dec. 1859–22 March 1860, when mission was abolished on annexation of Tuscany to Sardinia. _d._ Abinger hall near Dorking 24 June 1861. ABINGTON, LEONARD JAMES. _b._ London 27 Nov. 1785; edited _The Pottery Mercury_ at Hanley Staffordshire 1824; pastor of New st. baptist chapel, Hanley 1836–63. _d._ Northwood, Hanley 7 Aug. 1867. _Personal recollections of late L. J. Abington 1868, pt._ ABRAHALL, THEOPHILUS BENNETT HOSKYNS (_2 son of Rev. John Hoskyns Abrahall, C. of Badgworth, Somerset_). Barrister I.T. 25 June 1830; went western circuit; sec. of commissions of the peace to lord chancellor; revising barrister S. Lancashire and Northumberland; deputy registrar of London court of bankruptcy 1844–54, registrar 1854–14 Dec. 1861; comr. of Newcastle district court of bankruptcy 14 Dec. 1861–31 Dec. 1869, when country district courts were abolished, _d._ Wonford house lunatic asylum, Heavitree, Exeter 2 Aug. 1874 aged 72. ABRAHAM, GEORGE FREDERICK, admitted solicitor Nov. 1805; practised in London to death; originated with Thomas Thompson of the Stock Exchange the Home Missionary Society 11 Aug. 1819, the Congregational Union was merged in it 1827. _d._ 3 Mansfield st. Portland place, London 3 Jany. 1870 aged 88. ABRAHAM, ROBERT, _b._ Cumberland; ed. for medical profession at Univ. of Edin.; served on the press in Cumberland; edited a leading Liverpool journal; went to Canada about 1843; Proprietor of the _Montreal Gazette_, editor to Dec. 1848, when it was sold; admitted an advocate of Lower Canada; edited the _Transcript_ 1849 to death; edited the _Lower Canada Agricultural Journal_ to death. _d._ Montreal 10 Nov. 1854. _Morgan’s Bibliotheca Canadensis_ (1867) _pp._ 4–5. ABRAHAM, THOMAS, _b._ Bampton, Devon 1807; ed. at Blundell’s gr. sch. Tiverton; apprenticed to Edward Acton at Grundisburgh, Suffolk; studied at Guy’s hospital, London; L.S.A. Dec. 1833, M.R.C.S. April 1834; began practise in Old Broad st. 1834; surgeon to parish of Allhallows on the Wall for 3 years from Jany. 1835; surgeon to London infirmary for diseases of the skin 1836 to its close in 1837; member of Health of London association 1847; a comr. of sewers to his death; M.D. Erlangen 1851; M.D. Edin. 1859; a governor of Dulwich college 1861 to death and of Bridewell and Bethlehem hospitals; one of a sub committee of 4 who drew up “Report of health of London association on sanitary condition of Metropolis”; member of council of Hunterian society; helped to found Ragged school in Foster st. city of London; treasurer of London philanthropic society, _d._ Marsden villa, Haverstock hill 16 July 1864 in 57 year. _bur._ Kensal Green 21 July. _Medical Circular i_, 10, 25 (1852) _pt._ ABYSSINIA, ALAM-AYAHU, Prince of. (_son of Theodore King of Abyssinia 1818–68_). _b._ Debra Tabor 23 April 1861; arrived in England 14 July 1868; ed. at Cheltenham, Rugby and Sandhurst, _d._ Headingley, Leeds 14 Nov. 1879. ACKERLEY, CHARLES HENRY (_younger son of John Hawksey Ackerley, barrister, who d. 18 May 1842 aged 73, by Elizabeth dau. of Rev. John Chamberlayne of Maugersbury house, Gloucester_). Entered navy 1 Feb. 1810; lieut. 20 Nov. 1822; commander on half pay 1 July 1864; presented with large silver medal of Society of arts for his safety rods for ships’ boats 2 June 1828; invented a lamp which he called the lamp of life; tried at Swansea 27 Feb. 1851 for causing death of a miner named Dingle by the use of this lamp, and found not guilty; author of _A plan for the better security of vessels navigating the river Thames 1834_. _d._ at residence of his sister Mrs. Peter Brown at Dover 22 Nov. 1865. ACKERS, GEORGE HOLLAND, _b._ 10 Aug. 1812; commodore of royal Victoria yacht club 1850–62, this club was founded at Ryde, Isle of Wight 24 May 1845, its admiralty warrant is dated 29 July 1845; sheriff of Cheshire 1852; author of _Universal yacht signals_ 1847, of which he gave the copyright to Robert Henry Hunt who at his suggestion started _Hunt’s Yachting Magazine_ Aug. 1852. _d._ 15 Hyde park terrace, London 20 Jan. 1872. ACKERS, JAMES, _b._ 1811; M.P. for Ludlow (conserv.) 3 July 1841–23 July 1847; purchased estate of Prinknash, Gloucestershire 1847. _d._ 27 Sep. 1868. ACLAND, JAMES (_son of Mr. Acland of London, Government contractor_). _b._ city of London 21 March 1799; ed. at Alfred house academy, Camberwell; joined Phillimore’s theatrical company at Chew Magna; clerk in office of Hullett Brothers & Company, South American merchants, Austin Friars; leading tragedian of Royalty theatre, Wellclose square; taught English at Calais; a penny a liner in London; sub editor of the _British Traveller_; took lodgings in Queen st. Hull 1831; started a publication called _The Portfolio, or memoirs and correspondence of an editor_, Aug. 1831; printed it himself at 23 Queen st.; erected a stall in the market place and refused to pay usual fee for it; ran a packet called the “Magna Charta” from Hull to Barton on Humber, charging less than half fares; ran a light cart over all bridges in the town and refused to pay bridge toll, great alarm being created, the Mayor swore in 800 special constables, corporation began action against him in court of King’s Bench, Jany. 1832; tried at York 31 March 1832 for infringement of Barton ferry, when verdict went against him with damages one farthing, his costs amounting to £270, he barricaded his house for several months to prevent anyone entering to arrest him, his _Portfolio_ being sold through a crevice in the window; elected churchwarden of Holy Trinity, Hull, Easter Monday 1832; taken to gaol for not paying his costs; a candidate for office of chamberlain of Hull, Sep. 1832; a grocer at 23 Queen st., to which house he gave name of “Anti-corporate castle;” confined in the King’s Bench prison, Nov. 1832; sentenced to 18 months imprisonment in gaol of Bury St. Edmunds for libel; served the full term; contested Hull as a liberal 13 Dec. 1832, polled only 433 votes; last number of the _Portfolio_ issued 13 July 1833, a few sheets followed, which he styled _Prison Proverbs_. Proprietor with Richard and Anthony Dugdale of _Paris Sun_, “the largest continental journal and the only English paper in the world, published daily throughout the year,” was director and editor of it at 7 Rue Vivienne, Paris 1 Jany. 1837; only number of it in British Museum library is headed “Vol. 2, No. 54, Thursday morning, Feb. 23, 1837, 10 sous,” the proprietors were condemned by the president of 6th chamber of correctional police to a fine to government of 2000 francs, and to payment of 1000 francs to proprietors of an opposition paper for libel 22 Feb. 1837; lecturer of Anti-corn law league 1838–46; convened and addressed farm labourers of every village in Devon and Cornwall; an election and parliamentary agent 1846 to death; a very good speaker on nearly any subject; author of _True patriotism_, _a poem_ 1817, _The Imperial poll book of all elections from_ 1832 to 1864, Second ed. 1869. _d._ 14 Ellerslie terrace, Clapham, London 21 June 1876. _The Bristolian Nos. 1–7, 23 Feb.–11 May 1872_; _W. A. Gunnell’s Sketches of Hull celebrities_ 1876, 460–64. ACLAND, SIR PEREGRINE FULLER PALMER, 2 Baronet, _b._ 10 Nov. 1789; succeeded 23 Feb. 1831. _d._ Fairfield, Bridgwater 25 Oct. 1871. ACLAND, SIR THOMAS DYKE, 10 Baronet (_1 son of Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, 9 baronet, who d. 17 May 1794, by Henrietta Anne only dau. of Sir Richard Hoare, baronet, she d. 2 Sep. 1841_). _b._ London 29 March 1787; ed. at Harrow and Ch. Ch. Ox., B.A. 1808, M.A. 1814, D.C.L. 1831; one of the founders of Grillion’s club 1812, which met at Grillion’s hotel, 7 Albemarle st. London; M.P. Devon (tory) 17 Oct. 1812–10 June 1818 and 18 March 1820–23 April 1831; M.P. for North Devon 29 July 1837–21 March 1857; head of religious party in House of Commons; F.G.S. 1818, F.R.G.S. 1830, F.R.S. 20 June 1839. (_m._ 7 April 1808 Lydia Elizabeth only dau. of Henry Hoare of Fleet st. London, banker, she _d._ 23 June 1856 aged 69). _d._ Killerton, Broad Clyst, Devon 22 July 1871. _J. B. Sweet’s Life of Henry Hoare_ 1870; _I.L.N. lix_, 99, 116, 121, 362 (1871) _pt._ _Grillion’s Club by P. G. E. privately printed_ 1880 _pt._ NOTE.—His personalty was sworn under £70,000; a statue of him by E. B. Stephens, A.R.A., was erected on Northernhay, Exeter 1861. ACTON, ELIZA (_eld. dau. of John Acton of Hastings, brewer_). _b._ Battle, Sussex 17 April 1799; published Poems 500 copies 1826, 2 ed. 1827; lived some time in France; at Tunbridge 1837; at Hampstead; author of _The voice of the North, a poem_ 1842; _Modern Cookery in all its branches_ 1845, _6 ed._ 1855; _The English bread book_ 1857. _d._ Snowdon house, John st. Hampstead 13 Feb. 1859. ACTON, MARIANNE LADY ACTON (_elder dau. of general Joseph Edward Acton_). _b._ 1782. _m._ 1796 by dispensation of the Pope, her uncle Sir John Francis Edward Acton, 6 baronet, prime minister of Naples several years, he was _b._ 1736 and _d._ 12 Aug. 1811. _d._ Buckland 18 March 1873. ACTON, WILLIAM. _b._ 1789; sheriff of Wicklow 1820; M.P. for co. Wicklow (conserv.) 17 July 1841–27 April 1848. _d._ Westaston Rathdrum, co. Wicklow 10 April 1854. ACTON, WILLIAM, _b._ Shillingstone rectory 15 Sep. 1814; placed under care of Dr. Mant in London 1830; articled pupil of Charles Wheeler, (Apothecary to St. Bartholomew’s hospital) 1830–35; Externe at female venereal hospital Paris; Secretary of the Parisian medical society 1839; returned to London Oct. 1840; M.R.C.S. June 1840; practised in George st. Hanover square 1840–43; removed to 46 Queen Anne st. Cavendish square March 1843; surgeon to Islington dispensary; author of _A practical treatise on diseases of the urinary and generative organs_ 1841, _3 ed._ 1860; _Prostitution considered in its moral, social and sanitary aspects in London and other large cities_ 1857, _2 ed._ 1870. _d._ 17 Harley st. London 7 Dec. 1875. _Medical Circular i_, 11–12 (1852). ADAIR, SIR ROBERT (_son of Robert Adair, sergeant surgeon to George III, who d. 16 March 1790, by Caroline Keppel, 1737–69 elder dau. of Wm. Anne 3 Earl of Albemarle_). _b._ London 24 May 1763; ed. at Westminster and Univ. of Gottingen; called to the bar at L.I. 27 April 1785; M.P. Appleby, (whig) 18 June 1799–29 June 1802, for Camelford 7 July 1802–29 Sep. 1812; minister to court of Vienna 7 May 1806–14 May 1807; minister to Constantinople 5 July 1808, and ambassador 14 April 1809; sent on a special mission to the Low Countries 1831–35; P.C. 23 July 1828; G.C.B. 3 Aug. 1831 for negotiating peace between Great Britain and Ottoman Porte in 1809; author of _Historical memoir of a mission to court of Vienna in 1806 with a selection from despatches_, 1844; _The negotiations for the peace of the Dardanelles in 1808–1809_, _2 v
a trace. Nothing is forced or dragged in. It is all, apparently, simply inevitable. You do not exclaim as you read, ‘What a memory the fellow has!’ but merely, ‘How charming it all is!’ It is not difficult to construct from these two volumes alone the gospel--the familiar, the noble gospel according to Dr. Johnson. It reads somewhat as follows: ‘Your father begot you and your mother bore you. Honour them both. Husbands, be faithful to your wives. Wives, forgive your husbands’ unfaithfulness--once. No grown man who is dependent on the will, that is the whim, of another can be happy, and life without enjoyment is intolerable gloom. Therefore, as money means independence and enjoyment, get money, and having got it keep it. A spendthrift is a fool. ‘Clear your mind of cant and never debauch your understanding. The only liberty worth turning out into the street for, is the liberty to do what you like in your own house and to say what you like in your own inn. All work is bondage. ‘Never get excited about causes you do not understand, or about people you have never seen. Keep Corsica out of your head. ‘Life is a struggle with either poverty or ennui; but it is better to be rich than to be poor. Death is a terrible thing to face. The man who says he is not afraid of it lies. Yet, as murderers have met it bravely on the scaffold, when the time comes so perhaps may I. In the meantime I am horribly afraid. The future is dark. I should like more evidence of the immortality of the soul. ‘There is great solace in talk. We--you and I--are shipwrecked on a wave-swept rock. At any moment one or other of us, perhaps both, may be carried out to sea and lost. For the time being we have a modicum of light and warmth, of meat and drink. Let us constitute ourselves a club, stretch out our legs and talk. We have minds, memories, varied experiences, different opinions. Sir, let us talk, not as men who mock at fate, not with coarse speech or foul tongue, but with a manly mixture of the gloom that admits the inevitable, and the merriment that observes the incongruous. Thus talking we shall learn to love one another, not sentimentally but fundamentally. ‘Cultivate your mind, if you happen to have one. Care greatly for books and literature. Venerate poor scholars, but don’t shout for “Wilkes and Liberty!” The one is a whoremonger, the other a flatulency. ‘If any tyrant prevents your goings out and your comings in, fill your pockets with large stones and kill him as he passes. Then go home and think no more about it. Never theorize about Revolution. Finally, pay your score at your club and your final debt to Nature generously and without casting the account too narrowly. Don’t be a prig like Sir John Hawkins, or your own enemy like Bozzy, or a Whig like Burke, or a vile wretch like Rousseau, or pretend to be an atheist like Hume, but be a good fellow, and don’t insist upon being remembered more than a month after you are dead.’ This is but the First Lesson. To compose the Second would be a more difficult task and must not be here attempted. These two volumes of Dr. Hill are endless in their variety. Johnson was gloomy enough, and many of his letters may well move you to tears, but his was ever a human gloom. The year before his death he writes to Mrs. Thrale: ‘The black dog I hope always to resist and in time to drive, though I am deprived of almost all those that used to help me. The neighbourhood is impoverished. I had once Richardson and Lawrence in my reach. Mrs. Allen is dead. My house has lost Levet, a man who took interest in everything and therefore ready at conversation. Mrs. Williams is so weak that she can be a companion no longer. When I rise my breakfast is solitary--the black dog waits to share it; from breakfast to dinner he continues barking, except that Dr. Brocklesby for a little keeps him at a distance. Dinner with a sick woman you may venture to suppose not much better than solitary. After dinner, what remains but to count the clock and hope for that sleep which I can scarce expect? Night comes at last, and some hours of restlessness and confusion bring me again to a day of solitude. What shall exclude the black dog from an habitation like this? If I were a little richer I would perhaps take some cheerful female into the house.’ It is a melancholy picture, but the ‘cheerful female’ shoots a ray of light across the gloom. Everyone should add these two volumes to his library, and if he has not a library, let him begin making one with them. RICHARD CUMBERLAND. ‘He has written comedies at which we have cried and tragedies at which we have laughed; he has composed indecent novels and religious epics; he has pandered to the public lust for personal anecdote by writing his own life and the private history of his acquaintances.’ Of whom is this a portrait, and who is the limner? What are the names of the comedies and the tragedies and the novels thus highly recommended to the curious reader? These are questions, I flatter myself, wholly devoid of public interest. The quotation is from a review in the _Quarterly_, written by Sir Walter Scott, of old Richard Cumberland’s last novel, ‘John de Lancaster,’ published in 1809, when its author, ‘the Terence of England,’ was well-nigh eighty years of age. The passage is a fierce one, but Scott’s good-nature was proof against everything but affectation. No man minded a bad novel less than the author of ‘Guy Mannering’ and ‘The Heart of Midlothian.’ I am certain he could have pulled Bishop Thirlwall through ‘The Wide, Wide World,’ in the middle of which, for some unaccountable reason, that great novel-reading prelate stuck fast. But an author had only to pooh-pooh the public taste, to sneer at popularity, to discourse solemnly on his function as a teacher of his age and master of his craft, to make Sir Walter show his teeth, and his fangs were formidable; and the storm of his wrath all the more tremendous because bursting from a clear sky. I will quote a few words from the passage in ‘John de Lancaster’ which made Scott so angry, and which he pronounced a doleful lamentation over the ‘praise and pudding which Cumberland alleges have been gobbled up by his contemporaries’: ‘If in the course of my literary labours I had been less studious to adhere to nature and simplicity, I am perfectly convinced I should have stood higher in estimation with the purchasers of copyright, and probably have been read and patronized by my contemporaries in the proportion of ten to one.’ It seems a harmless kind of bleat after all, but it was enough to sting Scott to fury, and make him fall upon the old man in a manner somewhat too savage and tartarly. Some years later, and after Cumberland was dead, Sir Walter wrote a sketch of his life in the vein we are better accustomed to associate with the name of Scott. Cumberland was a voluminous author, having written two epics, thirty-eight dramatic pieces, including a revised version of ‘Timon of Athens’--of which Horace Walpole said, ‘he has caught the manners and diction of the original so exactly that I think it is full as bad a play as it was before he corrected it’--a score or two of fugitive poetical compositions, including some verses to Dr. James, whose powders played almost as large a part in the lives of men of that time as Garrick himself, numerous prose publications and three novels, ‘Arundel,’ ‘Henry,’ and ‘John de Lancaster.’ Of the novels, ‘Henry’ is the one to which Sir Walter’s epitaph is least inapplicable--but Cumberland meant no harm. Were I to be discovered on Primrose Hill, or any other eminence, reading ‘Henry,’ I should blush no deeper than if the book had been ‘David Grieve.’ Cumberland has, of course, no place in men’s memories by virtue of his plays, poems, or novels. Even the catholic Chambers gives no extracts from Cumberland in the ‘Encyclopedia.’ What keeps him for ever alive is--first, his place in Goldsmith’s great poem, ‘Retaliation’; secondly, his memoirs, to which Sir Walter refers so unkindly; and thirdly, the tradition--the well-supported tradition--that he was the original ‘Sir Fretful Plagiary.’ On this last point we have the authority of Croker, and there is none better for anything disagreeable. Croker says he knew Cumberland well for the last dozen years of his life, and that to his last day he resembled ‘Sir Fretful.’ The Memoirs were first published in 1806, in a splendidly printed quarto. The author wanted money badly, and Lackington’s house gave him £500 for his manuscript. It is an excellent book. I do not quarrel with Mr. Leslie Stephen’s description of it in the ‘National Dictionary of Biography’: ‘A very loose book, dateless, inaccurate, but with interesting accounts of men of note.’ All I mean by excellent is excellent to read. The Memoirs touch upon many points of interest. Cumberland was born in the Master’s Lodge, at Trinity, Cambridge, in the Judge’s Chamber--a room hung round with portraits of ‘hanging judges’ in their official robes,and where a great Anglican divine and preacher told me he had once passed a sleepless night, so scared was he by these sinful emblems of human justice. There is an admirable account in Cumberland’s Memoirs of his maternal grandfather, the famous Richard Bentley, and of the Vice-Master, Dr. Walker, fit to be read along with De Quincey’s spirited essay on the same subject. Then the scene is shifted to Dublin Castle, where Cumberland was Ulster-Secretary when Halifax was Lord-Lieutenant, and Single-speech Hamilton had acquired by purchase (for a brief season) the brains of Edmund Burke. There is a wonderful sketch of Bubb Dodington and his villa ‘La Trappe,’ on the banks of the Thames, whither one fair evening Wedderburn brought Mrs. Haughton in a hackney-coach. You read of Dr. Johnson and Dr. Goldsmith, of Garrick and Foote, and participate in the bustle and malice of the play-house. Unluckily, Cumberland was sent to Spain on a mission, and came home with a grievance. This part is dull, but in all other respects the Memoirs are good to read. Cumberland’s father, who became an Irish bishop, is depicted by his son as a most pleasing character; and no doubt of his having been so would ever have entered a head always disposed to think well of fathers had not my copy of the Memoirs been annotated throughout in the nervous, scholarly hand of a long-previous owner who, for some reason or another, hated the Cumberlands, the Whig clergy, and the Irish people with a hatred which found ample room and verge enough in the spacious margins of the Memoirs. I print one only of these splenetic notes: ‘I forget whether I have noticed this elsewhere, therefore I will make sure. In the novel “Arundel,” Cumberland has drawn an exact picture of himself as secretary to Halifax, and has made the father of the hero a clergyman and a keen electioneerer--the vilest character in fiction. The laborious exculpation of Parson Cumberland in these Memoirs does not wipe out the scandal of such a picture. In spite of all he says, we cannot help suspecting that Parson Cumberland and Joseph Arundel had a likeness. N.B.--In both novels (_i.e._, “Arundel” and “Henry”) the portrait of a modern clergyman is too true. But it is strange that Cumberland, thus hankering after the Church, should have volunteered two such characters as Joseph Arundel and Claypole.’ ‘Whispering tongues can poison truth,’ and a persistent annotator who writes a legible hand is not easily shaken off. Perhaps the best story in the book is the one about which there is most doubt. I refer to the well-known and often-quoted account of the first night of ‘She Stoops to Conquer,’ and of the famous band of _claqueurs_ who early took their places, determined to see the play through. Cumberland tells the story with the irresistible verve of falsehood--of the early dinner at the ‘Shakespeare Tavern,’ ‘where Samuel Johnson took the chair at the head of a long table, and was the life and soul of the corps’; of the guests assembled, including Fitzherbert (who had committed suicide at an earlier date), of the adjournment to the theatre with Adam Drummond of amiable memory, who ‘was gifted by Nature with the most sonorous and at the same time the most contagious laugh that ever echoed from the human lungs. The neighing of the horse of the son of Hystaspes was a whisper to it; the whole thunder of the theatre could not drown it’; and on the story rolls. It has to be given up. There was a dinner, but it is doubtful whether Cumberland was at it; and as for the proceedings at the theatre, others who were there have pronounced Cumberland’s story a bit of _blague_. According to the newspapers of the day, Cumberland, instead of sitting by Drummond’s side and telling him when to laugh in his peculiar manner, was visibly chagrined by the success of the piece, and as wretched as any man could well be. But Adam Drummond must have been a reality. His laugh still echoes in one’s ears. ALEXANDER KNOX AND THOMAS DE QUINCEY. Amongst the many _bizarre_ things that attended the events which led up to the Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland, was the circumstance that Lord Castlereagh’s private secretary during the period should have been that Mr. Alexander Knox whose Remains in four rather doleful volumes were once cherished by a certain school of theologians. Mr. Knox was a man of great piety, some learning, and of the utmost simplicity of life and manners. He was one of the first of our moderns to be enamoured of primitive Christian times, and to seek to avoid the claims of Rome upon the allegiance of all Catholic-minded souls by hooking himself on to a period prior to the full development of those claims. It is no doubt true that, for a long time past, Nonconformists of different kinds have boldly asserted that they were primitive; but it must be owned that they have never taken the least pains to ascertain the actual facts of the case. Now, Mr. Knox took great pains to be primitive. Whether he succeeded it is not for me to say, but at all events he went so far on his way to success as to leave off being modern both in his ways of thought and in his judgments of men and books. English Nonconformity has produced many hundreds of volumes of biography and Remains, but there is never a primitive one amongst them. To anyone who may wish to know what it is to be primitive, there is but one answer: Read the Remains of Alexander Knox. Be careful to get the right Knox. There was one Vicesimus, who is much better known than Alexander, and at least as readable, but (and this is the whole point) not at all primitive. And it was this primitive, apostolic Mr. Knox who is held by some to be the real parent of the Tractarian movement, whose correspondence is almost entirely religious, and whose whole character stands revealed in his Remains as that of a man without guile, and as obstinate as a mule, who was chosen at a most critical moment of political history to share the guilty secrets of Mr. Pitt and Lord Castlereagh. It seems preposterous. The one and only thing in Knox’s Remains of the least interest to people who are not primitive, is a letter addressed to him by Lord Castlereagh, written after the completion of the Union, and suggesting to him the propriety of his undertaking the task of writing the history of that event--the reason being his thorough knowledge of all the circumstances of the case. Such a letter bids us pause. By this time we know well enough how the Act of Union was carried. By bribery and corruption. Nobody has ever denied it for the last fifty years. It has been in the school text-books for generations. But the point is, Did Mr. Knox know? If he did, it must seem to all who have read his Remains--and it is worth while reading them only to enjoy the sensation--a most marvellous thing. It would not be more marvellous had we learnt from Canon Liddon’s long-looked-for volumes that Mr. Pusey was Mr. Disraeli’s adviser in all matters relating to the disposition of the secret service money and the Tory election funds. If Knox did not know anything about it, how was he kept in ignorance, how was he sheltered from the greedy Irish peers and borough-mongers and all the other impecunious rascals who had the vending of a nation? And what are we to think of the foresight of Castlereagh, who secured for himself such a secretary in order that, after all was over, Mr. Knox might sit down and in all innocence become the historian of proceedings of which he had been allowed to know nothing, but which sorely needed the cloak of a holy life and conversation to cover up their sores? It is an odd problem. For my part, I believe in Knox’s innocence. Trying very hard to be worthy of the second century was not good training for seeing his way through the fag-end of the eighteenth. Apart from this, it is amazing what some men will not see. I recall but will not quote the brisk retort of Mrs. Saddletree at her husband’s expense, which relates to the incapacity of that learned saddler to see what was going on under his nose. The test was a severe one, but we have no doubt whatever that Alexander Knox could have stood it as well as Mr. Bartoline Saddletree. Another strange incident connected with the same event is that the final ratification of the Act of Union in Dublin was witnessed by, and made, as it could not fail to do, a great impression upon, the most accomplished rhetorical writer of our time. De Quincey, then a precocious boy of fifteen, happened by a lucky chance to be in Ireland at the time, and as the guest of Lord Altamount, an Irish peer, he had every opportunity both of seeing the sight and acquainting himself with the feelings of some of the leading actors in the play, call it tragedy, comedy, or farce, as you please. De Quincey’s account of the scene, and his two chapters on the Irish Rebellion, are to be found in the first volume of his ‘Autobiographic Sketches.’ De Quincey hints that both Lord Altamount and his son, ‘who had an Irish heart,’ would have been glad if at the very last moment the populace had stepped in between Mr. Pitt and the Irish peers and commoners and compelled the two Houses to perpetuate themselves. Internally, says De Quincey, they would have laughed. But it was written otherwise in Heaven’s Chancery, and ‘the Bill received the Royal assent without a muttering or a whispering or the protesting echo of a sigh.... One person only I remarked whose features were suddenly illuminated by a smile--a sarcastic smile, as I read it--which, however, might be all fancy. It was Lord Castlereagh.’ Can it possibly be that this was the very moment when it occurred to his lordship’s mind that Mr. Knox was the man to be the historian of the event thus concluded? The new edition of De Quincey’s writings has naturally provoked many critics to attempt to do for him what he was fond enough of doing for others, often to their dismay--to give some account, that is, of the author and the man. De Quincey does not lend himself to this familiar treatment. He eludes analysis and baffles description. His great fault as an author is best described, in the decayed language of the equity draughtsman, as multifariousness. His style lacks the charm of economy, and his workmanship the dignity of concentration. A literary spendthrift is, however, a very endurable sinner in these stingy days. Mr. Mill speaks somewhere (I think in his ‘Political Economy’) almost sorrowfully of De Quincey’s strange habit of scattering fine thoughts up and down his merely miscellaneous writings. The habit has ceased to afflict the reader. The fine maxim ‘Waste not, want not,’ is now inscribed over the desks of our miscellaneous writers. Such extravagance as De Quincey’s, as it is not likely to be repeated, need not be too severely reprobated. De Quincey’s magnificence, the apparent boundlessness of his information, the liberties he takes, relying upon his mastery of language, his sportiveness and freakish fancies, make him the idol of all hobbledehoys of a literary turn. By them his sixteen volumes are greedily devoured. Happy the country, one is tempted to exclaim, that has such reading to offer its young men and maidens! The discovery that De Quincey wrote something else besides the ‘Opium Eater’ marks a red-letter day in many a young life. The papers on ‘The Twelve Cæsars’; on the ‘Essenes and Secret Societies’; on ‘Judas Iscariot,’ ‘Cicero,’ and ‘Richard Bentley’; ‘The Spanish Nun,’ the ‘Female Infidel,’ the ‘Tartars,’ seemed the very climax of literary well-doing, and to unite the learning of the schools with all the fancy of the poets and the wit of the world. As one grows older, one grows sterner--with others. ‘Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control That o’er thee swell and throng; They will condense within thy soul, And change to purpose strong.’ The lines have a literary as well as a moral value. But though paradox may cease to charm, and a tutored intellect seem to sober age a better guide than a lawless fancy, and a chastened style a more comfortable thing than impassioned prose and pages of _bravura_, still, after all, ‘the days of our youth are the days of our glory,’ and for a reader who is both young and eager the Selections Grave and Gay of Thomas de Quincey will always be above criticism, and belong to the realm of rapture. HANNAH MORE. An ingenious friend of mine, who has collected a library in which every book is either a masterpiece of wit or a miracle of rarity, found great fault with me the other day for adding to my motley heap the writings of Mrs. Hannah More. In vain I pleaded I had given but eight shillings and sixpence for the nineteen volumes, neatly bound and lettered on the back. He was not thinking, so he protested, of my purse, but of my taste, and he went away, spurning the gravel under his feet, irritated that there should be such men as I. I, however, am prepared to brazen it out. I freely admit that the celebrated Mrs. Hannah More is one of the most detestable writers that ever held a pen. She flounders like a huge conger-eel in an ocean of dingy morality. She may have been a wit in her youth, though I am not aware of any evidence of it--certainly her poem, ‘Bas Bleu,’ is none--but for all the rest of her days, and they were many, she was an encyclopædia of all literary vices. You may search her nineteen volumes through without lighting upon one original thought, one happy phrase. Her religion lacks reality. Not a single expression of genuine piety, of heart-felt emotion, ever escapes her lips. She is never pathetic, never terrible. Her creed is powerless either to attract the well-disposed or make the guilty tremble. No naughty child ever read ‘The Fairchild Family’ or ‘Stories from the Church Catechism’ without quaking and quivering like a short-haired puppy after a ducking; but, then, Mrs. Sherwood was a woman of genius, whilst Mrs. Hannah More was a pompous failure. Still, she has a merit of her own, just enough to enable a middle-aged man to chew the cud of reflection as he hastily turns her endless pages. She is an explanatory author, helping you to understand how sundry people who were old when you were young came to be the folk they were, and to have the books upon their shelves they had. Hannah More was the first, and I trust the worst, of a large class--‘the ugliest of her daughters Hannah,’ if I may parody a poet she affected to admire. This class may be imperfectly described as ‘the well-to-do Christian.’ It inhabited snug places in the country, and kept an excellent, if not dainty, table. The money it saved in a ball-room it spent upon a greenhouse. Its horses were fat, and its coachman invariably present at family prayers. Its pet virtue was Church twice on Sunday, and its peculiar horrors theatrical entertainments, dancing, and threepenny points. Outside its garden wall lived the poor who, if virtuous, were for ever curtsying to the ground or wearing neat uniforms, except when expiring upon truckle-beds beseeching God to bless the young ladies of The Grange or the Manor House, as the case might be. As a book ‘Cœlebs in Search of a Wife’ is as odious as it is absurd--yet for the reason already assigned it may be read with a certain curiosity--but as it would be cruelty to attempt to make good my point by quotation, I must leave it as it is. It is characteristic of the unreality of Hannah More that she prefers Akenside to Cowper, despite the latter’s superior piety. Cowper’s sincerity and pungent satire frightened her; the verbosity of Akenside was much to her mind: ‘Sir John is a passionate lover of poetry, in which he has a fine taste. He read it [a passage from Akenside’s “Pleasures of Imagination”] with much spirit and feeling, especially these truly classical lines: ‘“_Mind--mind_ alone; bear witness, earth and heaven, The living fountains in itself contains Of Beauteous and Sublime; here hand in hand Sit paramount the graces; here enthroned Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, Invites the soul to never-fading joy.” ‘“The reputation of this exquisite passage,” said he, laying down the book, “is established by the consenting suffrage of all men of taste, though, by the critical countenance you are beginning to put on you look as if you had a mind to attack it.” ‘“So far from it,” said I [Cœlebs], “_that I know nothing more splendid in the whole mass of our poetry_.”’ Miss More had an odd life before she underwent what she calls a ‘revolution in her sentiments,’ a revolution, however, which I fear left her heart of hearts unchanged. She consorted with wits, though always, be it fairly admitted, on terms of decorum. She wrote three tragedies, which were not rejected as they deserved to be, but duly appeared on the boards of London and Bath with prologues and epilogues by Garrick and by Sheridan. She dined and supped and made merry. She had a prodigious flirtation with Dr. Johnson, who called her a saucy girl, albeit she was thirty-seven; and once, for there was no end to his waggery, lamented she had not married Chatterton, ‘that posterity might have seen a propagation of poets.’ The good doctor, however, sickened of her flattery, and one of the rudest speeches even he ever made was addressed to her. After Johnson’s death Hannah met Boswell, full of his intended book which she did her best to spoil with her oily fatuity. Said she to Boswell, ‘I beseech your tenderness for our virtuous and most revered departed friend; I beg you will mitigate some of his asperities,’ to which diabolical counsel the Inimitable replied roughly, ‘He would not cut off his claws nor make a tiger a cat to please anybody.’ The most moving incident in Hannah More’s life occurred near its close, and when she was a lone, lorn woman--her sisters Mary, Betty, Sally, and Patty having all predeceased her. She and they had long lived in a nice house or ‘place’ called Barley Wood, in the neighbourhood of Bristol, and here her sisters one after another died, leaving poor Hannah in solitary grandeur to the tender mercies of Mrs. Susan, the housekeeper; Miss Teddy, the lady’s-maid; Mrs. Rebecca, the housemaid; Mrs. Jane, the cook; Miss Sally, the scullion; Mr. Timothy, the coachman; Mr. John, the gardener; and Mr. Tom, the gardener’s man. Eight servants and one aged pilgrim--of such was the household of Barley Wood! Outwardly decorum reigned. Poor Miss More fondly imagined her domestics doted on her, and that they joyfully obeyed her laws. It was the practice at family prayer for each of the servants to repeat a text. Visitors were much impressed, and went away delighted. But like so many other things on this round world, it was all hollow. These menials were not what they seemed. After Miss More had heard them say their texts and had gone to bed, their day began. They gave parties to the servants and tradespeople of the vicinity (pleasing word), and at last, in mere superfluity of naughtiness, hired a large room a mile off and issued invitations to a great ball. This undid them. There happened to be at Barley Wood on the very night of the dance a vigilant visitor who had her suspicions, and who accordingly kept watch and ward. She heard the texts, but she did not go to bed, and from her window she saw the whole household, under cover of night, steal off to their promiscuous friskings, leaving behind them poor Miss Sally only, whose sad duty it was to let them in the next morning, which she duly performed. Friends were called in, and grave consultations held, and in the end Miss More was told how she had been wounded in her own household. It was sore news; she bore it well, wisely determined to quit Barley Wood once and for ever, and live, as a decent old lady should, in a terrace in Clifton. The wicked servants were not told of this resolve until the actual moment of departure had arrived, when they were summoned into the drawing-room, where they found their mistress, and a company of friends. In feeling tones Miss Hannah More upbraided them for their unfaithfulness. ‘You have driven me,’ said she, ‘from my own home, and forced me to seek a refuge among strangers.’ So saying, she stepped into her carriage and was driven away. There is surely something Miltonic about this scene, which is, at all events, better than anything in Akenside’s ‘Pleasures of Imagination.’ The old lady was of course much happier at No. 4, Windsor Terrace, Clifton, than she had been at Barley Wood. She was eighty-three years of age when she took up house there, and eighty-nine when she died, which she did on the 1st of September, 1833. I am indebted for these melancholy--and, I believe, veracious--particulars to that amusing book of Joseph Cottle’s called ‘Early Recollections, chiefly relating to the late Samuel Taylor Coleridge during his long residence in Bristol.’ I still maintain that Hannah More’s works in nineteen volumes are worth eight shillings and sixpence. MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. Miss Mathilde Blind, in the introduction to her animated and admirable translation of the now notorious ‘Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff,’ asks an exceedingly relevant question--namely, ‘Is it well or is it ill done to make the world our father confessor?’ Miss Blind does not answer her own question, but passes on her way content with the observation that, be it well or ill done, it is supremely interesting. Translators have, indeed, no occasion to worry about such inquiries. It is hard enough for them to make their author speak another language than his own, without stopping to ask whether he ought to have spoken at all. Their business is to make their author known. As for the author himself, he, of course, has a responsibility; but, as a rule, he is only thinking of himself, and only anxious to excite interest in that subject. If he succeeds in doing this, he is indifferent to everything else. And in this he is encouraged by the world. Burns, in his exuberant generosity, was sure that it could afford small pleasure ‘Even to a deil To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, And hear us squeal;’ but whatever may be the devil’s taste, there is nothing the reading public like better than to hear the squeal of some self-torturing atom of humanity. And, as the atoms have found this out, a good deal of squealing may be confidently anticipated. The eclipse of faith has not proved fatal by any means to the instinct of confession. There is a noticeable desire to make humanity or the reading public our residuary legatee, to endow it with our experiences, to enrich it with our egotisms, to strip ourselves bare in the market-place--if not for the edification, at all events for the amusement, of man. All this is accomplished by autobiography. We then become interesting, probably for the first time, as, to employ Mlle. Bashkirtseff’s language, ‘documents of human nature.’ The metaphor carries us far. To falsify documents by addition, or to garble them by omission, is an offence of grave character, though of frequent occurrence. Is there, then, to be no reticence in autobiography? Are the documents of human nature to be printed at length? These are questions which each autobiographer must settle for himself. If what is published is interesting for any reason whatsoever, be it the work of pious sincerity or diseased self-consciousness, the world will read it, and either applaud the piety or ridicule the absurdity of the author. If it is not interesting it will not be read. Therefore, to consider the ethics of autobiography is to condemn yourself to the academy. ‘Rousseau’s Confessions’ ought never to have been written; but written they were, and read they will ever be. But as a pastime moralizing has a rare charm. We cannot always be reading immoral masterpieces. A time comes when inaction is pleasant, and when it is soothing to hear mild accents murmuring ‘Thou shalt not.’ For a moment, then, let the point remain under consideration. The ethics of autobiography are, in my judgment, admirably summed up by George Eliot, in a passage in ‘Theophrastus Such,’ a book which, we were once assured, well-nigh destroyed the reputation of its author, but which would certainly have established that of most living writers upon a surer foundation than they at present occupy. George Eliot says: ‘In all autobiography there is, nay, ought to be, an incompleteness which may have the effect
thing in the iv: 8 v. he has Isaiah's view of the Seraphims and uses nearly the same language in describing them, and says with Isaiah they rest neither day nor night, saying, Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come, 8 v., and in the fifth chapter he says "And I beheld and heard the voices of many angels round about the throne, saying with a loud voice, worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power," &c. &c. Ezekiel's Cherubims and John's Angels are undoubtedly the same. John's _four_ beasts, Isaiah's Seraphims, and Ezekiel's _four_ wheels are typical of the _four_ grand divisions of the Camp of Israel, around the Tabernacle in the wilderness, all marshalled and arrayed by God's direction with their _four_ different standards, (answering to the _four_ faces or sides to Ezekiel's wheel, and the faces of John's four beasts). Juda with the Lion in the front on the East, (Num. ch. ii.) all ready to move at a moment's warning. Even where the "cloudy pillar by day or of fire by night;" which rested on the Tabernacle, should direct. The Levites, the ministers of God, all moving in perfect harmony, with the Ark containing the Commandments of God; close after which, in the midst of the camp, in solid columns follows the taken down tabernacle. All moving after and watching the direction of this "fiery pillar by night," and the moment it ceased to move the camp halted. The Tabernacle was raised, and the Commandments of God, (the keeping of which will secure an entrance into the Anti-type, the real Heavenly Tabernacle, that is to be "with men," Rev. xxi: 3; xxii: 14.) restored to their proper place _beneath_, and under the guardian care of the Cherubims between which his people were directed to pray unto him. Exo. xxv: 22. John also has described in the above mentioned texts, much of the furniture particularized in the old Tabernacle, which Paul says are "patterns of the true." Heb. ix: 23, 24. Conclusive evidence that he was in the "_true_ (or real) Tabernacle which God pitched, and not man." Heb. viii: 2. The same _City_, which Abraham "looked for, whose builder and maker is God." The Psalmist also agrees with Paul; and says, "The Lord has _prepared his throne_ in the Heavens." Paul says, that Jesus is there. See Heb. viii: 1, 2; and ix: 24. Jesus says, "he that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my _throne_, even as I also overcame and am set down with my Father in _his throne_." Rev. iii: 21. Now, is it not evident that God has but one sanctuary, and that his throne is there; and one place for that sanctuary, and that place in the third heavens? Why then, should there be more than one way to approach it, or for it to come from, namely, by "the Cherubims and flaming sword, stationed there, to guard the way?" The editor of the Day Star asks, "why we stand gazing up into heaven; can you (meaning, I suppose, any one) tell where this same Jesus is coming from?" 2d. "Can you prove God the Father to be in one place, in any greater degree and power, than he is in any and every, and every other place?" If we have not already offered sufficient evidence, in answer to these two most important questions to the true believer in Christ, we will try a little further; for if we cannot understand, nor in any way comprehend, the teachings of the divine word, in respect to the second coming and kingdom of Jesus Christ, the location of the heavenly _Sanctuary_, the new Jerusalem, God's dwelling place, other than is figuratively discerned, then, I say, we that truly believe in God, "are of all men the most miserable;" and the sooner we hoist the _Shaker's_ flag, and bring too under the lee of their _camp_, the better; for I should despair of ever getting my anchor _down_ "within the vale." In the first place then, we say, Jesus has not yet come the second time, in the manner he promised us. For when speaking of his coming, he says emphatically, "Then shall THEY SEE _the Son of man coming in the clouds of Heaven_," &c. Now, according to this description, I'll venture the assertion, that there is not a particle of proof in the universe, that one solitary individual has seen him. Hence, I for one, am gazing up into heaven looking, and unwaveringly believing, that this, his precious promise, will soon be realized. But you say, he has come in his saints. Well, I say there is no more proof of this, than there was that he was in his apostle's, eighteen hundred years ago--for they certainly wrought many wonderful miracles, and preached with as much power; and the mighty weapons they used, was the death, resurrection and second coming of Christ. Now did the Apostle's ever teach such a doctrine, that Jesus had come _in them_ the second time? and further, I cannot believe that he will be seen any sooner in Ohio, than in New-England or New-York. Again, we answer to the first and second questions, combined--Rev. iv: 2. Here is a throne, with one seated upon it. Is there any proof to be found that this throne was on the Isle of Patmos, Rome, or any other city, or place in this globe? Will it not be conceded by all Bible students, that the Lord God Almighty, the Father, is seated upon it? Does not the Seraphims which are continually crying, Holy, Holy, Holy, in the eighth verse, say so? Who was found worthy to come and take the book out of the right hand of him that sat upon this throne? Did he take it out of his own hand? No, it does not read so. Who, then? John says, it "was the Lamb." Others said, it "was the Lion of the tribe of Juda." We say, "the Son of the Father." Here, then, where the door was _opened_ into heaven, John saw the Father and the Son together, _at one time and in one place_, transacting business; at the sight of which, ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands and thousands of angels cried aloud, "worthy is the Lamb," &c.; and every creature under heaven acknowledged it! Verse 11, 13. I am aware that it will be said this is symbolical language. Allow me to quote an extract from a celebrated writer. "Even the symbolic parts of a vision have a mixed character. When real persons, the highest in their kind are mentioned by their proper titles, there is no room for symbols; the objects represent themselves, God and Christ and the good angels; Satan and evil spirits, and redeemed saints on earth or in heaven, are never emblems. Forsake this maxim, and symbolic prophecy becomes a chaos, in which nothing is fixed, and where fancy runs riot in its own excesses." But you say, God is a spirit. (There is no doubt but what his spirit pervades all space, and every thing in it that has life.) But to the testimony. "Ye have neither heard his voice nor seen his shape." John v: 37. Did Jesus contradict the Patriarchs and Prophets? No, no! He here told his persecutors what they had not seen nor heard; he did not say he had no voice or shape. Who did? 1st. Moses. "And I will cover thee with my _hand_ while I pass by; and I will take away mine _hand_ and thou shalt see my _back parts_, but my _face_ shall not be seen." Exod. xxxiii: 22, 23. 2d. The "_eyes_ of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his _ears_ are open unto their cry. The _face_ of the Lord are against them that do evil: the Lord _heareth_." Psalms xxxiv: 15, 17. Again, the "Ancient of days did _sit_, whose _garment_ was white as snow, and the _hair of his head_ like the pure wool." Does not this prove a shape, features, and voice, ascribed to God, the same as to man. "And God said let us make man in our own image, after our likeness; so God created man in his own image, in the _image of God_ created he him: male and female created he them." Gen. i: 26, 27. Paul says of Jesus, "Who is the _image of God_, (this can't be spiritually so) the first born of every creature; who being in the _form of God_, thought it not robbery to be equal with God." Eph. ii: 5, 6. Now to the Hebrews--"Hath in these last days spoken unto us by his son, who being the brightness of his glory, and the EXPRESS IMAGE of his person." Now turn to the history of Rome for a moment--read how LENTULUS describes the Savior to the Roman Senate. Here he describes his stature, countenance, his eyes, beautiful flowing hair, his wisdom, &c., and finally closes with the following: "A _man_ for his singular beauty far exceeding all the sons of men." Paul says, he is the "_express image_" _of God_. (I understand him to say that he looks just like him.) Oh, says one, this man is a Unitarian! So then was Paul, or I have not quoted him right. And Daniel, the prophet, teaches the same doctrine. "I saw in the night visions: and behold, one like the Son of man came with the clouds of heaven, and came to the Ancient of days, (described in the ninth verse) and they brought him near before him; and there was given him dominion and glory, and a kingdom, never to be destroyed." Dan. vii: 13, 14. Now we all admit this personage was Jesus Christ; for no being on earth or in heaven, has ever had the promise of an everlasting kingdom but him. And does not the Ancient of days give it to him? Would it not be absurd to say that he gave it to himself? How then can it be said (or proved) as it is by some, that the Son is the Ancient of days;--this passage, and the one in fifth Revelations, distinctly prove God and his Son to be two persons in heaven. Jesus says, "I proceeded forth and came from God; neither came I of myself, but he sent me." John viii: 42. "I come forth from the Father, and am come into the world; again, I leave the world and go to the Father." (Does he remain in the same place?) "We are confident I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and present with the Lord." Paul. "The Scripture testimony accounts for no other spirits but those seen in the shape of men." One of the three which came to Abraham was the Lord. Gen. xviii. The Angel Gabriel was called the "man Gabriel." Danl. ix. The angel which appeared to Gideon was called the Lord. I think here is sufficient proof from the Scriptures to justify the true believer to be still looking for a personal Saviour, and that God the Father is a person, and looks like Jesus and we like him; and God has a habitation where he dwells, as the Scriptures testify: "And I John saw the _Holy City new Jerusalem_ coming down from God out of Heaven." Another writer in the same paper undertakes to prove that this same City has began to appear; has been developing itself since the fall of 1844. Who has seen this City? O, he says, it is evident, that it is the saints. Is it possible that the Saints have been _coming down from Heaven_ this eighteen months! Why, there is not the least particle of proof that the righteous dead have yet been caught up? Thes. iv: 16, 17. I can readily believe that both of these brethren have been fearless advocates for the truth, and I do not doubt their sincerity. They have clearly proved that they are not seeking the applause of the world. I sincerely hope that they will not get so far into the fire on one side of the "highway" as some are in the "slough of despond" on the other. The main business of the Devil is now to make God's people change their course, and it is matter of no moment to him on which side of the "highway" they fall. In either case he will make sure of his prey. God help us to be on our watch. The great error here has arisen in consequence of taking the symbolical meaning and rejecting the true. The author of the Apocalyptic Dictionary, R. C. SHEMEALL, says, "_Holy City, Jerusalem._ Used symbolically of the present visible Church; Literally, that CITY which comes down from God." Let us examine a few texts: "Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem." Jer. ii: 2. "And he carried away all Jerusalem." Kings xxiv: 14. "The cry of Jerusalem is gone up." Jer. xiv: 2. "Jerusalem has sinned they have seen her nakedness, yea she sigheth." Lam. i: 8. "Jerusalem is a menstrous woman." 17 v. "Awake, awake, stand up O Jerusalem." Isa. li: 17. "Arise and set down O Jerusalem." lii: 2. "O Jerusalem wash thine heart from wickedness." Jer. iv: 14. "Cut off thine hair O Jerusalem and cast it away." Jer. vi: 8. Here we see that old Jerusalem is personified. The prophets exhort her to "stand up" and "set down," and "awake from sleep," and "wash her heart," and "be instructed," to "cut off her hair and cast it away." She is also called a "menstrous woman," and said to "cry and sigh," and be "carried away." A "tumultuous city;" a "joyous city;" a "glad city." "Thou art comely, O my love, as Jerusalem." Songs vi: 4. "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest," &c. Now this language never could be understood, unless there was 1st: a Jerusalem, people and government; neither could we understand what is said of the new Jerusalem in many places, without associating organization, as the "Zion of God," "the Zion of the Holy One of Israel." Isa. lx: 14. "Like the kingdom of God among the Pharisees." Luke xvii: 21. This old Jerusalem at his second coming would be the place for the capital of his kingdom; his disciples the subjects; he their king. As also in Daniel viii: 13--connecting the "Host (God's people) and sanctuary." Paul to the Galatians says, "Agar is Mount Sinai in Arabia, and answereth to Jerusalem, which now is, and is in bondage with _her children_. But Jerusalem which is above is free, which is the _mother_ of us all." Can this testimony be credited? Did not "Abraham look for a city which had foundations?" Paul also says of the pilgrims and strangers on the earth, that they "were seeking an heavenly country for God _hath_ prepared for them a _City_"! Heb. xi. in the past tense; then it cannot be developing now in his Saints, but they are preparing to enter the CITY. When John was describing the _City_ in xxi. Rev. he said he saw no temple there "for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the Temple of it." Now Peter and Paul distinctly describe the Saints (not the city) coming to this Mount Zion, and Temple, which makes it perfect and complete. Peter says of his "spiritual house," "Ye also as lively stones, [be ye built--_margin_.] up a spiritual house." 1 Pet. ii: 5. To whom coming as unto a living stone. 4 v. For, says sixth verse, behold I lay in Zion a chief corner stone. (Jesus.) Peter says of this Temple, _be ye built_. Paul says it is _growing_. Read how admirably he describes it to the Ephesians. "Fellow citizens with the Saints, and of the household of God. And are built upon the _foundation_ of the Apostles and _Prophets_," (see John's twelve gates representing the twelve tribes in Rev. xxi: 12; and the twelve Apostles of the Lamb representing the twelve foundations of the wall, 14th verse, which encloses the whole,) Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone, _In whom all the building fitly framed_ GROWETH INTO _an holy Temple in the Lord_; In whom ye also are builded _together_ for an habitation of God. Eph. ii: 19, 22. His Epistle to the Hebrews shows how they are brought together and where. "But ye are come unto Mount Zion, and unto the City of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels; To the general assembly and church of the first born, which are (enrolled--_margin_) in heaven; And to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator of the new Covenant." Now has not Paul distinctly described _what_ the Saints _shall come to_. O but, say you, we have already come. No, no, friend, you are too fast. Paul will explain: "_Mount Zion_ the _City the Heavenly Jerusalem_ to the innumerable company of Angels (or Cherubims) to the Church of the first born and to God, and to Jesus." xii: 22, 24. Now where? See 25, 28, when he speaketh from heaven. His voice once shook the earth, but now he is about to speak and shake heaven also, wherefore we receiving a kingdom which cannot be moved, (this is after every thing else is moved,) therefore wait until God shall speak in the language of Joel, and "Roar out of Zion and utter his voice from Jerusalem." Paul shows the Corinthians how it is finished. Hear him: "What agreement hath the temple of God with idols? for _ye_ are the _Temple_ of the living God, as God hath said I will dwell in them, and walk in them, and I will be their God and they shall be my people." Then God and Christ and immortal Saints, constitute the Temple in this glorious City of Zion. I have been thus particular in quoting the Scriptures, in answer to the questions proposed, to endeavor if possible to dispel some of the thick darkness and mist of Shakerism, Quakerism, Swedenborgianism, and all the Spiritualisms that now seem to be settling down all over the moral world, and shutting out even the very light from the horizon. To my mind this spiritualizing system, when God's word admits of a literal interpretation, and--according to rule--the literal first; is, to use a sailor phrase, like a ship groping her way into Boston Bay in the night, in a thick snow with the moon at full. Nothing could be more deceptive to the mariner; the flying clouds at one moment light up the firmament by the thinness of its vapor, (encouraging the mariner to believe that he shall now see the light house) the next moment it grows darker, and so it continues to deceive them, until of a sudden the breakers are roaring all around them--the ship is dashed upon the rocks--one general cry goes aloft for mercy! and all hope is forever gone--ship and mariners strewed all over the beach! Good God! help us to steer clear of these spiritual interpretations of Thy word, where it is made so clear that the second coming and kingdom of Christ will be as literal and real, as the events that transpired at the first Advent, now recorded in history. When the Saviour comes the second time, it will be with the City, (the Capital of his kingdom) seated upon his throne. Hear him: "When the son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he be _seated_ upon the throne of his _glory_." Matt. xxv. 31. "And the city had no need of the sun--for the glory of God did lighten it, and the lamb is the light thereof." "But the _throne_ of God and the Lamb shall _be in it_." Rev. xxi: 23, and xxii: 3. This _glory_ is none other than the golden City. When "one like the son of man came before the Ancient of days," in Daniel, he received "_Dominion_, and _Glory_, and a _Kingdom_." Glory, signifies worldly splendor, and magnificence. What, I ask, will be more splendid and glorious than this City of Gold poised fifteen hundred miles into the Heavens. The Psalmist cries out in view of it, in this sublime language, "Let thy Glory be above all the earth!" and so it will be; and as his dominion is from sea to sea, and from the rivers unto the ends of the earth, so I believe his _glory_ will be seen from the uttermost border. Other views of the glory of God and Christ do not destroy this. Saint John has connected in one, the "_Holy City_, _New Jerusalem_, _Tabernacle of God_, _Bride the Lambs Wife_, coming down from God, _out of Heaven_ to dwell with his _people_." PROOF--"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain." "And he that sit upon the throne said, behold I make all things new, and he said unto me write, for these words are true and faithful." Rev. xxi: 4, 5. Is it not clear that the _City_, and the _King_, and _Saints_, are here distinctly described. Why, then, all this shouting about a figurative fulfillment, while yourselves and the world are groping through the "_snow storm_." THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM. The old Prophets looking down through the vista of time to the coming of this heavenly city, break forth in language like the following: "And it shall come to pass that he that is left in _Zion_ and he that remaineth in _Jerusalem_ shall be called holy, even every one that is written among the living in _Jerusalem_." "Then the Moon shall be confounded and the Sun ashamed when the Lord of hosts shall reign in Mount _Zion_ and in _Jerusalem_--(why? because John says they will 'have no need of the sun nor the moon,') and before his ancients gloriously." Who are they? Noah, Abraham and the Prophets. Again: "Look upon _Zion_ the _City_ of our solemnities; thine eye shall see _Jerusalem_ a quiet habitation, a _Tabernacle_ that shall not be taken down; not one of the stakes thereof shall ever be removed." "Break forth into joy, sing together ye waste places of _Jerusalem_ for the Lord hath comforted his people, he hath redeemed _Jerusalem_." "Give no rest till he establish and till he make _Jerusalem_ a praise in the earth." Do they mean old Jerusalem? The Saviour's prediction is against it, "left desolate," its inhabitants "carried away captive and trodden down by the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled." Luke xxi. Further: "But be ye glad and rejoice forever in that which I create, behold I create _Jerusalem_ a rejoicing and her people a joy, and I will rejoice in _Jerusalem_ and joy in my people, and the voice of weeping shall be no more heard in her, nor the voice of crying." Isa. iv: 3; xxiv: 23; xxxiii: 20; lii: 9; lxii: 7; lxv: 18, 19. Also read xl: 1; lii: 1; lx: 14, and xxxv: 10. "At that time they shall call _Jerusalem_ the _throne_ of the Lord, and all the nations shall be gathered into it--neither shall they walk any more after the imagination of their evil heart." "In those days shall Juda be saved and _Jerusalem_ shall dwell _safely_ and this is the name wherewith she shall be called, THE LORD OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS. For thus saith the Lord, David shall never want a man to set upon the throne of the house of Israel." Jer. iii: 17; xxxiii: 16, 17. "The Lord also shall roar out of _Zion_ and utter his voice from _Jerusalem_, then shall _Jerusalem be holy_, and there shall be no stranger pass through her any more." Joel iii: 16, 17. Here then, in every instance save one or two, the people of God are connected with the "_Zion_ of God," "_City_ of God," "_Jerusalem_ which is to be in the last days." The Psalmist says, "Glorious things are spoken of thee, O _City_ of God." lxxxvii: 3. John's record is, "Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in the Temple of my God, and he shall go no more out, and I will write upon him the name of my God and the name of the City of my God, (what union, and yet, how distinct!) which is new _Jerusalem_ which cometh down _out_ of heaven from my God, and I will write upon him my new name." How could the Saviour have been more explicit and plain. "Him that overcometh." Who? Why, the Saint; not the City, the _new Jerusalem_. Again: "Blessed are they that do his commandments that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city." If the city is the Saints, what is this that enters into and have right to the tree of life? Can the _City_ go into the _City_? If so, then we acknowledge the _City_ is the Saints. But it reads, the Saints go in there. In Rev. xxi: 16, the City is said to be four square, twelve thousand furlongs; the length, and the breadth, and the height of it are equal. Then, according to arithmetical computation, it is fifteen hundred miles square. Now, if the City spiritually means the Saints of God, then, to carry out the figure, the Saints must stand over, or upon each other (according to the common stature) one million and four hundred thousand deep; or will it be asserted that they are fifteen hundred miles tall! SANCTUARY. Well, says one, are you going to call this _City_ the Sanctuary too? If you will allow the Bible testimony you will have to believe it is, or search more diligently for it in this planet than any one else ever has that I have heard of. But it has been proved by most able men, and learned men, that it is the Earth, or the Land of Canaan. Well, let us look at it again. But allow me first to recommend to your particular notice, O. R. L. Grosier's article in the Day Star Extra, for the 7th of February, 1846, from the 37th to the 44th page. Read it again. In my humble opinion it is superior to any thing of the kind extant. "_Sanctuary_ was the first name the Lord gave the Tabernacle, which name covers not only the Tabernacle with the two apartments, but also the court with all its hangings, and all the vessels of the ministry." Exo. xxv: 8, 9, and 38, 21; Num. i: 53. This, then, was a dwelling place, and a true pattern of the heavenly, embracing within its "jaspar" walls "the Paradise of God," with the "pure river of the water of life," and the "tree of life," and the "Golden City in the midst," all to come down from heaven and be located in old Jerusalem. Za. 14th chapter. That's too absurd to believe, says one. Is it any more so, than to believe the Apostle John's testimony? Does he not show us that the tree of life is inside of the gates, in xxii: 14. Read also the two first verses. Do not the waters issue out from the throne? and is not the tree of life on either side of it? and is not the promise--to him that overcometh I will give to eat of the tree of life which is in the midst of the Paradise of God? Well, continues the objector, I don't know but that I could have believed your Scripture testimony concerning the city, but I can't believe that God has such a place in the third heavens, and that it will descend to this earth with a river of water in, or on it. How can you believe then, what you are experiencing every day of your life, on the planet in which we live? While she is flying in her orbit around the Sun at the rate of fifty-eight thousand miles per hour, she is at the same time whirling over like a ball from East to West, at the rate of six hundred miles per hour, in her diurnal or daily motion, bottom upwards, as it would appear, every twenty-four hours, and yet, by an unseen power, (readily accounted for by Astronomers,) not only the rivers and the lakes, but the mighty ocean, remains unmoved. As we have before quoted, Moses says that a river went out of Eden to water the Garden, and became into four heads. Gen. ii: 10, 14. Now let us turn to Ezekiel's prophecy for a corresponding view, as "in the mouth of two or three witnesses, shall every word be established." In chapter 43, 1st and 7th verses, he testifies that this accords with the vision he had by the river Chebar twenty years before, (previously quoted.) Here he sees the Glory of God on the east side of the _Sanctuary_, (where Moses said the flaming sword and Cherubims were,) and his "voice like the noise of many waters saying to him that the house of Israel shall no more defile God's name." Afterwards, in 47th chapter, 1st and 5th verse: "He brought me again unto the door of the house, and behold waters issued out from under the threshold of the house eastward--(observe how particular to mention the "east side")--for the fore front of the house stood towards the east, and the waters came down from _under_, from the right side of the house." His guide then measured the waters one thousand cubits (more than one-fourth of a mile) "the waters were to the ankles," but when he had measured four thousand cubits, they had become waters to swim in, that could not be passed over. In 12th verse he describes the tree of life yielding its monthly fruit, for meat, and its unfading leaves for medicine. Why all this? "Because the waters issued out of the Sanctuary." Now read again in Rev. xxii: 1, 2; does not John tell the same story: the waters issuing from out the throne, the tree of life, the monthly fruit, the leaves for healing, the nations. Is not this after the city comes down? In 48th chapter, 8th verse: "And the sanctuary shall be in the midst of it." Once more the measuring rod is run over it, showing the four sides just like the old pattern in the wilderness, and then says the Sanctuary shall be in the midst thereof. From 30th to 35th verse, he describes the wall and the gates as John does in Rev. xxi: 13, and closes up his prophecy in these words, "And the name of the city from that day shall be, the Lord is there." Now let the old prophet Isaiah testify to what he saw: "Look upon _Zion_ the _City_ of our solemnities, thine eyes shall see Jerusalem a quiet habitation, a Tabernacle that shall not be taken down; not one of the stakes thereof shall ever be removed, neither shall any of the cords thereof be broken. But there the glorious Lord will be unto us a place of _broad rivers and streams_, wherein shall go no galley with oars, neither shall gallant ships pass thereby." xxxiii: 20, 21. The Psalmist says, "there _is_ a river; the streams whereof make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High. God is in the midst of her"--46: 4, 5. Jeremiah says, "A glorious high throne from the beginning is the place of our _sanctuary_." xvii: 12. The Psalmist replies, "For he hath looked down from the height of his _sanctuary_; from heaven did the Lord behold the earth." cii: 19. (If he had said _sanctuary_ instead of earth, we should not have been easily moved from our former exposition.) "The Lord is in his holy temple, the Lord's throne is in heaven." xi: 4. Paul says to the Hebrews, "We have such an high priest, who is set on the right hand of the throne of the majesty, in the heavens; a minister of the _sanctuary_ and of the _true_ Tabernacle, which the Lord pitched, and not man." Heb. viii: 1, 2. "For the _invisible things_ of Him from the creation of the world are _clearly_ seen, being understood by the _things that are made_." Rom. i: 20. Paul tells the Hebrews how they may understand these _invisible_ things, which he says are _clearly seen_. See viii. c., 5 v. "Shadow of heavenly things." For see, (saith he) "that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount." Now then, whenever we want to understand about the heavenly _sanctuary_, we must turn to Moses's description of the sanctuary in the wilderness, which he made after the pattern God gave him; which Paul says were shadows of heavenly things. How will a man dare (in the face of all this inspired testimony) to stand here on God's earth, and assert that the heavenly sanctuary with all that pertains to it is a FIGURE, and spiritualize it away. It would be ten thousand times easier for him to spiritualize the old Tabernacle and Solomon's Temple, seeing the one that is to come as far exceeds the temple of Solomon or Nehemiah, (although, it is allowed, that nothing on earth ever exceeded them) as the most splendid palace of the king does the sentry box of his guard. Much safer would it be for him to teach that the rocks had never been rent, or as he passed the streets in the afternoon and saw the shadow of the buildings, should insist upon it that the shadows were real, but the buildings, which cast the shadows, were spiritual. Such doctrine should be ranked with Mahometanism and Jesuitism, save their demoniac spirit; it comes from
.” “You may see the ruins of what might have been Cashel-na-Mara, where the Macnamara held his court--Mac na Mara means Son of the Waves, you must know.” “It’s a matter of notoriety,” said Edmund. “The Macnamaras and the Casheldergs were the deadliest of enemies, and hardly a day passed for years--maybe centuries--without some one of the clan getting the better of the other. Maybe that was how the surplus population was kept down in these parts. Anyhow there was no talk, so far as I’ve heard, of congested districts in them days. Well, sir, it so happened that the Prince of the Macnamaras was a fine, handsome, and brave young fellow, and the Princess Fither of Cashelderg was the most beautiful of Irish women, and that’s saying a good deal. As luck would have it, the young people came together. Her boat was lost in a fog one night and drifting upon the sharp rocks beyond the headland. The cries of the poor girl were heard on both sides of the Lough--the blessed Lough where we’re now floating--but no one was brave enough to put out to the rescue of the Princess--no one, did I say? Who is it that makes a quick leap off the cliffs into the rolling waters beneath? He fights his way, strong swimmer that he is! through the surge, and, unseen by any eye by reason of the fog, he reaches the Princess’s boat. Her cries cease. And a keen arises along the cliffs of Carrigorm, for her friends think that she has been swallowed up in the cruel waves. The keen goes on, but it’s sudden changed into a shout of joy; for a noble young figure appears as if by magic on the cliff head, and places the precious burden of her lovely daughter in the arms of her weeping mother, and then vanishes.” “And so the feud was healed, and if they didn’t live happy, we may,” said Edmund. “That’s all you know about the spirit of an ancient Irish family quarrel,” said Brian pityingly. “No, sir. The brave deed of the young Prince only made the quarrel the bitterer. But the young people had fallen in love with each other, and they met in secret in that cave that you see there just above us--the Banshee’s Cave, it’s called to this day. The lovely Princess put off in her boat night after night, and climbed the cliff face--there was no path in them days--to where her lover was waiting for her in the cave. But at last some wretch unworthy of the name of a man got to learn the secret and told it to the Princess’s father. With half-a-dozen of the clan he lay in wait for the young Prince in the cave, and they stabbed him in twelve places with their daggers. And even while they were doing the murder, the song of the Princess was heard, telling her lover that she was coming. She climbed the face of the cliff and with a laugh ran into the trysting-place. She stumbled over the body of her lover. Her father stole out of the darkness of the cave and grasped her by the wrist. Then there rang out over the waters the cry, which still sounds on some nights from a cave--the cry of the girl when she learned the truth--the cry of the girl as, with a superhuman effort, she released herself from her father’s iron grasp, and sprang from the head of the cliff you see there above, into the depths of the waters where we’re now floating.” There was a pause before Edmund remarked, “Your story of the Montague-Macnamaras and the Capulet-Casheldergs is a sad one, Brian. And you have heard the cry of the young Princess with your own ears, I dare say?” “That I have, your honour. And it’s the story of the young Princess Fither and her lover that I tell to gentlemen that put their tongues in their cheeks when they’re alone, and thinking of the way the less knowing ones talk of love and the heart of a woman.” Both Edmund and Harold began to think that perhaps the Irish boatman was a shrewder and a more careful listener than they had given him. CHAPTER IV.--ON FABLES. VERY amusing indeed was Edmund’s parody of the boatman’s wildly-romantic story. The travesty was composed for the benefit of Miss Craven, and the time of its communication was between the courses of the very excellent dinner which Lord Innisfail had provided for his numerous guests at his picturesque Castle overlooking Lough Suangorm--that magnificent fjord on the West Coast of Ireland. Lord Innisfail was a true Irishman. When he was away from Ireland he was ever longing to be back in it, and when he was in Ireland he was ever trying to get away from it. The result of his patriotism was a residence of a month in Connaught in the autumn, and the rest of the year in Connaught Square or Monte Carlo. He was accustomed to declare--in England--that Ireland and the Irish were magnificent. If this was his conviction, his self-abnegation, displayed by carefully avoiding both, except during a month every year, was all the greater. And yet no one ever gave him credit for possessing the virtue of self-abnegation. He declared--in England--that the Irish race was the finest on the face of the earth, and he invariably filled his Castle with Englishmen. He was idolized by his Irish tenantry, and they occasionally left a few birds for his guests to shoot on his moors during the latter days of August. Lord Innisfail was a man of about fifty years of age. His wife was forty and looked twenty-five: their daughter was eighteen and looked twenty-four. Edmund Airey, who was trying to amuse Miss Craven by burlesquing the romance of the Princess Fither, was the representative in Parlament of an English constituency. His father had been in business--some people said on the Stock Exchange, which would be just the opposite. He had, however, died leaving his son a considerable fortune extremely well invested--a fact which tended strongly against the Stock Exchange theory. His son showed no desire to go on the turf or to live within reach to the European gaming-table. If there was any truth in the Stock Exchange theory, this fact tended to weaken the doctrine of heredity. He had never blustered on the subject of his independence of thought or action. He had attached himself unobtrusively to the Government party on entering Parlament, and he had never occasioned the Whips a moment’s anxiety during the three years that had elapsed since the date of his return. He was always found in the Government Lobby in a division, and he was thus regarded by the Ministers as an extremely conscientious man. This is only another way of saying that he was regarded by the Opposition as an extremely unscrupulous man. His speeches were brief, but each of them contained a phrase which told against the Opposition. He was wise enough to refrain from introducing into any speech so doubtful an auxiliary as argument, in his attempts to convince the Opposition that they were in the wrong. He had the good sense to perceive early in his career that argument goes for nothing in the House of Commons, but that trusted Governments have been turned out of office by a phrase. This power of perception induced him to cultivate the art of phrase-making. His dexterity in this direction had now and again made the Opposition feel uncomfortable; and as making the Opposition feel uncomfortable embodies the whole science of successful party-government in England, it was generally assumed that, if the Opposition could only be kept out of power after the General Election, Edmund Airey would be rewarded by an Under-Secretaryship. He was a year or two under forty, tall, slender, and so distinguished-looking that some people--they were not his friends--were accustomed to say that it was impossible that he could ever attain to political distinction. He assured Miss Craven that, sitting in the stern sheets of the boat, idly rocking on the smooth swell that rolled through the Lough from the Atlantic, was by far the most profitable way of spending two hours of the afternoon. Miss Craven doubted if this was a fact. “Where did the profit come in except to the boatman?” she inquired. Mr. Airey, who knew that Miss Craven was anxious to know if Harold had been of the profitable boating-party, had no idea of allowing his powers of travesty to be concealed by the account, for which the young woman was longing, of Harold and the topics upon which he had conversed. He assured her that it was eminently profitable for anyone interested in comparative mythology, to be made acquainted with the Irish equivalent to the Mantuan fable. “Fable!” almost shrieked Miss Craven. “Mantuan fable! Do you mean to suggest that there never was a Romeo and Juliet?” “On the contrary, I mean to say that there have been several,” said Mr. Airey. “They exist in all languages. I have come unexpectedly upon them in India, then in Japan, afterwards they turned up, with some delicate Maori variations, in New Zealand when I was there. I might have been prepared for them at such a place as this You know how the modern melodramas are made, Miss Craven?” “I have read somewhere, but I forget. And you sat alone in the boat smoking, while the boatman droned out his stories?” remarked the young woman, refusing a cold _entrée_. “I will tell you how the melodramas are made,” said Mr. Airey, refusing to be led up to Harold as a topic. “The artist paints several effective pictures of scenery and then one of the collaborateurs--the man who can’t write, for want of the grammar, but who knows how far to go with the public--invents the situation to work in with the scenery. Last of all, the man who has grammar--some grammar--fills in the details of the story.” “Really! How interesting! And that’s how Shakespeare wrote ‘Romeo and Juliet’? What a fund of knowledge you have, Mr. Airey!” Mr. Airey, by the method of his disclaimer, laid claim to a much larger fund than any that Miss Craven had attributed to him. “I only meant to suggest that traditional romance is evolved on the same lines,” said he, when his deprecatory head-shakes had ceased. “Given the scenic effects of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ the romance on the lines of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ will be forthcoming, if you only wait long enough. When you pay a visit to any romantic glen with a torrent--an amateurish copy of an unknown Salvator Rosa--ask for the ‘Lover’s Leap’ and it will be shown to you.” “I’ll try to remember.” “Given, as scenic details, the ruin of a Castle on one side of the Lough, the ruin of a Castle on the other, and the names of the hereditary enemies, the story comes naturally--quite as naturally--not to say overmuch about it--as the story of the melodrama follows the sketch of the scenic effects in the theatre. The transition from Montague to Macnamara--from Capulet to Cashelderg is easy, and there you are.” “And here we are,” laughed Miss Craven. “How delightful it is to be able to work out a legend in that way, is it not, Mr. Durdan?” and she turned to a man sitting at her left. “It’s quite delightful, I’m sure,” said Mr. Durdan. “But Airey is only adapting the creed of his party to matters of everyday life. What people say about his party is that they make a phrase first and then look out for a policy to hang upon it. Government by phrase is what the country is compelled to submit to.” Mr. Durdan was a prominent member of the Opposition. CHAPTER V.--ON A PERILOUS CAUSEWAY. MISS CRAVEN laughed and watched Mr. Airey searching for a reply beneath the frill of a Neapolitan ice. She did not mean that he should find one. Her aim was that he should talk about Harold Wynne. The dinner had reached its pianissimo passages, so to speak. It was dwindling away into the _marrons glacés_ and _fondants_ stage, so she had not much time left to her to find out if it was indeed with his friend Edmund Airey that Harold had disappeared every afternoon. Edmund Airey knew what her aim was. He was a clever man, and he endeavoured to frustrate it. Ten minutes afterwards he was amazed to find that he had told her all that she wanted to know, and something over, for he had told her that Harold was at present greatly interested in the question of the advisability of a man’s entering public life by the perilous causeway--the phrase was Edmund Airey’s--of matrimony. As he chose a cigar for himself--for there was a choice even among Lord Innisfail’s cigars--he was actually amazed to find that the girl’s purpose had been too strong for his resolution. He actually felt as if he had betrayed his friend to the enemy--he actually put the matter in this way in his moment of self-reproach. Before his cigar was well alight, however, he had become more reasonable in his censorship of his own weakness. An enemy? Why, the young woman was the best friend that Harold Wynne could possibly have. She was young--that is, young enough--she was clever--had she not got the better of Edmund Airey?--and, best of all, she was an heiress. “The perilous causeway of matrimony”--that was the phrase which had come suddenly into his mind, and, in order to introduce it, he had sent the girl away feeling that she was cleverer than he was. “The perilous causeway of matrimony,” he repeated. “With a handrail of ten thousand a year--there is safety in that.” He looked down the long dining-hall, glistening with silver, to where Harold stood facing the great window, the square of which framed a dim picture of a mountain slope, purple with heather, that had snared the last light of the sunken sun. The sea horizon cut upon the slope not far from its summit, and in that infinity of Western distance there was a dash of drifting crimson. Harold Wynne stood watching that picture of the mountain with the Atlantic beyond, and Edmund watched him. There was a good deal of conversation flying about the room. The smokers of cigarettes talked on a topic which they would probably have called Art. The smokers of pipes explained in a circumstantial way, that carried suspicion with it to the ears of all listeners, their splendid failures to secure certain big fish during the day. The smokers of cigars talked of the Horse and the House--mostly of the Horse. There was a rather florid judge present--he had talked himself crimson to the appreciative woman who had sat beside him at dinner, on the subject of the previous racing-season, and now he was talking himself purple on the subject of the future season. He had been at Castle Innisfail for three days, and he had steadily refused to entertain the idea of talking on any other subject than the Horse from the standpoint of a possible backer. This was the judge, who, during the hearing of a celebrated case a few months before--a case that had involved a reference to an event known as the City and Suburban, inquired if that was the name of a Railway Company. Hearing that it was a race, he asked if it was a horse race or a dog race. Harold remained on his feet in front of the window, and Edmund remained watching him until the streak of crimson had dwindled to a flaming Rahab thread. The servants entered the room with coffee, and brought out many subtle gleams from the old oak by lighting the candles in the silver sconces. Every time that the door was opened, the sound of a human voice (female) trying, but with indifferent success, to scale the heights of a song that had been saleable by reason of its suggestions of passion--drawing-room passion--saleable passion--fought its way through the tobacco smoke of the dining-hall. Hearing it fitfully, such men as might have felt inclined to leave half-smoked cigars for the sake of the purer atmosphere of the drawingroom, became resigned to their immediate surroundings. A whisper had gone round the table while dinner was in progress, that Miss Stafford had promised--some people said threatened--to recite something in the course of the evening. Miss Stafford was a highly-educated young woman. She spoke French, German, Italian and Spanish. This is only another way of saying that she could be uninteresting in four languages. In addition to the ordinary disqualifications of such young women, she recited a little--mostly poems about early childhood, involving a lisp and a pinafore. She wished to do duty as an object lesson of the possibility of combining with an exhaustive knowledge of mathematical formulæ, the strongest instincts of femininity. Mathematics and motherhood were not necessarily opposed to one another, her teachers had assured the world, through the medium of magazine articles. Formulæ and femininity went hand in hand, they endeavoured to prove, through the medium of Miss Stafford’s recitations; so she acquired the imaginary lisp of early childhood, and tore a pinafore to shreds in the course of fifteen stanzas. It was generally understood among men that one of these recitations amply repaid a listener for a careful avoidance of the apartment where it took place. The threat that had been whispered round the dinner-table formed an excuse for long tarrying in front of the coffee cups and Bénédictine. “Boys,” at length said Lord Innisfail, endeavouring to put on an effective Irish brogue--he thought it was only due to Ireland to put on a month’s brogue. “Boys, we’ll face it like men. Shall it be said in the days to come that we ran away from a lisp and a pinafore?” Then suddenly remembering that Miss Stafford was his guest, he became grave. “Her father was my friend,” he said. “He rode straight. What’s the matter with the girl? If she does know all about the binomial-theorem and German philosophy, has she not some redeeming qualities? You needn’t tell me that there’s not some good in a young woman who commits to memory such stuff as that--that what’s its name--the little boy that’s run over by a ‘bus or something or other and that lisps in consequence about his pap-pa. No, you needn’t argue with me. It’s extremely kind of her to offer to recite, and I will stand up for her, confound her! And if anyone wants to come round with the Judge and me to the stables while she’s reciting, now’s the time. Will you take another glass of claret, Wynne?” “No, thank you,” said Harold. “I’m off to the drawing-room.” He followed the men who were straggling into the great square hall where a billiard table occupied an insignificant space. The skeleton of an ancient Irish elk formed a rather more conspicuous object in the hall, and was occasionally found handy for the disposal of hats, rugs, and overcoats. “She is greatly interested in the Romeo and Juliet story,” remarked Edmund, strolling up to him. “She--who?” asked Harold. “The girl--the necessary girl. The--let us say, alternative. The--the handrail.” “The handrail?” “Yes. Oh, I forgot: you were not within hearing. There was something said about the perilous causeway of matrimony.” “And that suggested the handrail idea to you? No better idea ever occurred even to you, O man of many ideas, and of still more numerous phrases.” “She is responsive--she is also clever--she is uncommonly clever--she got the better of me.” “Say no more about her cleverness.” “I will say no more about it. A man cannot go a better way about checking an incipient passion for a young woman than by insisting on her cleverness. We do not take to the clever ones. Our ideal does not include a power of repartee.” “Incipient passion!” There was a suspicion of bitterness in Harold’s voice, as he repeated the words of his friend. “Incipient passion! I think we had better go into the drawing-room.” They went into the drawing-room. CHAPTER VI.--ON THE INFLUENCE OF AN OCEAN. MISS CRAVEN was sitting on a distant sofa listening, or pretending to listen, which is precisely the same thing, with great earnestness to the discourse of Mr. Durdan, who, besides being an active politician, had a theory upon the question of what Ibsen meant by his “Master Builder.” Harold said a few words to Miss Innisfail, who was trying to damp her mother’s hope of getting up a dance in the hall, but Lady Innisfail declined to be suppressed even by her daughter, and had received promises of support for her enterprise in influential quarters. Finding that her mother was likely to succeed, the girl hastened away to entreat one of her friends to play a “piece” on the pianoforte. She knew that she might safely depend upon the person to whom she applied for this favour, to put a stop to her mother’s negotiations. The lady performed in the old style. Under her hands the one instrument discharged the office of several. The volume of sound suggested that produced by the steam orchestra of a switchback railway. Harold glanced across the room and perceived that, while the performer was tearing notes by the handful and flinging them about the place--up in the air, against the walls--while her hands were worrying the bass notes one moment like rival terrier puppies over a bone, and at other times tickling the treble rather too roughly to be good fun--Miss Craven’s companion had not abandoned the hope of making himself audible if not intelligible. He had clearly accepted the challenge thrown down by the performer. Harold perceived that a man behind him had furtively unlatched one of the windows leading to the terrace, and was escaping by that means, and not alone. From outside came the hearty laughter of the judge telling an open-air story to his host. People looked anxiously toward the window. Harold shook his head as though suggesting that that sort of interruption must be put a stop to at once, and that he was the man to do it. He went resolutely out through the window. “‘Which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court,’” said Edmund, in the ear of Lady Innisfail. He spoke too soon. The judge’s laugh rolled along like the breaking of a tidal wave. It was plain that Harold had not gone to remonstrate with the judge. He had not. He had merely strolled round the terrace to the entrance hall. Here he picked up one of the many caps which were hanging there, and putting it on his head, walked idly away from the castle, hearing only the floating eulogy uttered by the judge of a certain well-known jockey who was, he said, the kindliest and most honourable soul that had ever pulled the favourite. A longing had come to him to hurry as far as he could from the Castle and its company--they were hateful to him just at that instant. The shocking performance of the woman at the pianoforte, the chatter of his fellow-guests, the delicate way in which his friend Edmund Airey made the most indelicate allusions, the _nisi prius_ jocularity of the judge--he turned away from all with a feeling of repulsion. And yet Lord Innisfail’s cook was beyond reproach as an artist. Harold Wynne had accepted the invitation of Lady Innisfail in cold blood. She had asked him to go to Castle Innisfail for a few weeks in August, adding, “Helen Craven has promised to be among our party. You like her, don’t you?” “Immensely,” he had replied. “I knew it,” she had cried, with an enthusiasm that would have shocked her daughter. “I don’t want a discordant note at our gathering. If you look coldly on Helen Craven I shall wish that I hadn’t asked you; but if you look on her in--well, in the other way, we shall all be happy.” He knew exactly what Lady Innisfail meant to convey. It had been hinted to him before that, as he was presumably desirous of marrying a girl with a considerable amount of money, he could not do better than ask Miss Craven to be his wife. He had then laughed and assured Lady Innisfail that if their happiness depended upon the way he looked upon Miss Craven, it would be his aim to look upon her in any way that Lady Innisfail might suggest. Well, he had come to Castle Innisfail, and for a week he had given himself up to the vastness of the Western Cliffs--of the Atlantic waves--of the billowy mountains--of the mysterious sunsets. It was impossible to escape from the overwhelming influence of the Atlantic in the region of Castle Innisfail. Its sound seemed to go out to all the ends of the earth. At the Castle there was no speech or language where its voice was not heard. It was a sort of background of sound that had to be arranged for by anyone desirous of expressing any thought or emotion in that region. Even the judge had to take it into consideration upon occasions. He never took into consideration anything less important than an ocean. For a week the influence of the Atlantic had overwhelmed Harold. He had given himself up to it. He had looked at Miss Craven neither coldly nor in the other way--whatever it was--to which Lady Innisfail had referred as desirable to be adopted by him. Miss Craven had simply not been in his thoughts. Face to face with the Infinite one hesitates to give up one’s attention to a question of an income that may be indicated by five figures only. But at the end of a week, he received a letter from his father, who was Lord Fotheringay, and this letter rang many changes upon the five-figure-income question. The question was more than all the Infinities to Lord Fotheringay, and he suggested as much in writing to his son. “Miss Craven is all that is desirable,” the letter had said. “Of course she is not an American; but one cannot expect everything in this imperfect world. Her money is, I understand, well invested--not in land, thank heaven! She is, in fact, a CERTAINTY, and certainties are becoming rarer every day.” Here the letter went on to refer to some abstract questions of the opera in Italy--it was to the opera in Italy that Lord Fotheringay w as, for the time being, attached. The progress made by one of its ornaments--gifted with a singularly flexible soprano--interested him greatly, and Harold had invariably found that in proportion to the interest taken by his father in the exponents of certain arts--singing, dancing, and the drama--his own allowance was reduced. He knew that his father was not a rich man, for a peer. His income was only a trifle over twelve thousand a year; but he also knew that only for his father’s weaknesses, this sum should be sufficient for him to live on with some degree of comfort. The weaknesses, however, were there, and they had to be calculated on. Harold calculated on them; and after doing the sum in simple subtraction with the sound of the infinite ocean around him, he had asked his friend Edmund Airey to pass a few hours in the boat with him. Edmund had complied for three consecutive afternoons, with the result that, with three ridiculous stories from the Irish boatman, Harold had acquired a certain amount of sound advice from the friend who was in his confidence. He had made up his mind that, if Miss Craven would marry him, he would endeavour to make her the wife of a distinguished man. That included everything, did it not? He felt that he might realize the brilliant future predicted for him by his friends when he was the leader of the party of the hour at Oxford. The theory of the party was--like everything that comes from Oxford--eminently practical. The Regeneration of Humanity by means of Natural Scenery was its foundation. Its advocates proved to their own satisfaction that, in every question of morality and the still more important question of artistic feeling, heredity was not the dominant influence, but natural scenery. By the party Harold was regarded as the long-looked-for Man--what the world wanted was a Man, they declared, and he was destined to be the Man. He had travelled a good deal on leaving the University, and in a year he had forgotten that he had ever pretended that he held any theory. A theory he had come to believe to be the paper fortress of the Immature. But the Man--that was a different thing. He hoped that he might yet prove himself to be a man, so that, after all, his friends--they had also ceased to theorize--might not have predicted in vain. Like many young men without experience, he believed that Parliament was a great power. If anyone had told him that the art of gerrymandering is greater than the art of governing, he would not have known what his informant meant. His aspirations took the direction of a seat in the House of Commons. In spite of the fact of his being the son of Lord Fotheringay, he believed that he might make his mark in that Assembly. The well-known love of the Voter for social purity--not necessarily in Beer--and his intolerance of idleness--excepting, of course, when it is paid for by an employer--had, he knew, to be counted on. Lord Fotheringay was not, he felt, the ideal of the Working man, but he hoped he might be able to convince the Working man--the Voter--that Lord Fotheringay’s most noted characteristics had not descended to his son. From his concern on this point it will be readily understood how striking a figure was the Voter, in his estimation. It is not so easy to understand how, with that ideal Voter--that stern unbending moralist--before his eyes, he should feel that there was a great need for him to be possessed of money before offering himself to any constituency. The fact remained, however, that everyone to whom he had confided his Parliamentary aspirations, had assured him at the outset that money had to be secured before a constituency could be reckoned on. His friend Edmund Airey had still further impressed upon him this fact; and now he had made up his mind that his aspirations should not be discouraged through the lack of money. He would ask Helen Craven that very night if she would have the goodness to marry him. CHAPTER VII.--ON THE ADVANTAGES OF A FULL MOON. WHY the fact of his having made up his mind to ask Miss Craven who, without being an American, still possessed many qualities which are generally accepted as tending to married happiness, should cause him to feel a great longing to leave Castle Innisfail, its occupants, and its occupations behind him for evermore, it is difficult to explain on any rational grounds. That feeling was, however, upon him, and he strode away across the billowy moorland in the direction of the cliffs of the fjord known as Lough Suangorm. The moon was at its full. It had arisen some little way up the sky and was showering its red gold down the slopes of the two cone-shaped mountains that guard the pass of Lamdhu; the deep glen was flooded with moonlight--Harold could perceive in its hollows such objects as were scarcely visible on the ordinary gray days of the West of Ireland. Then he walked until he was on the brink of the great cliffs overhanging the lough. From the high point on which he stood he could follow all the curves of the lough out to the headlands at its entrance seven miles away. Beyond those headlands the great expanse of sea was glittering splendidly in the moonlight, though the moon had not risen high enough to touch the restless waters at the base of the cl iffs on which he stood. The waters were black as they struggled within their narrow limits and were strangled in the channel. Only a white thread of surf marked the breaking place of the waves upon the cliffs. He went down the little track, made among the rocks of the steep slope, until he reached the natural cavern that bore the name of the Banshee’s Cave. It was scarcely half-way up the face of the cliff. From that hollow in the rocks the descent to the waters of the lough was sheer; but the cave was easily accessible by a zig-zag path leading up from a small ledge of rocks which, being protected by a reef that started up abruptly half a dozen yards out in the narrow channel, served as a landing place for the fishing boats, of which there were several owned in the tiny village of Carrigorm. He stood at the entrance to the cavern, thinking, not upon the scene which, according to the boatman’s story, had been enacted at the place several hundreds--perhaps thousands (the chronology of Irish legends is vague)--of years before, but upon his own prospects. “It is done,” he said, looking the opposite cliffs straight in the face, as though they were Voters--(candidates usually look at the Voters straight in the face the first time they address them). “It is done; I cast it to the winds--to the seas, that are as indifferent to man’s affairs as the winds. I must be content to live without it. The career--that is enough!” What it was that he meant to cast to the indifference of the seas and the winds was nothing more than a sentiment--a vague feeling that he could not previously get rid of--a feeling that man’s life without woman’s love was something incomplete and unsatisfactory. He had had his theory on this subject as well as on others long ago--he had gone the length of embodying it in sonnets. Was it now to go the way of the other impracticable theories? He had cherished it for long. If it had not been dear to him he would not have subjected himself to the restriction of the sonnet in writing about it. He would have adopted the commonplace and facile stanza. But a sonnet is a shrine. He had felt that whatever might happen to him, however disappointed he might become with the world and the things of the world, that great and splendid love was before him, and he felt that to realize it would be to forget all disappointments--to forget all the pangs which the heart of man knows when its hour of disillusion comes. Love was the reward of the struggle--the deep, sweet draught that refreshes the heart of the toiler, he felt. In whatever direction illusion may lie, love was not in that direction. That had been his firm belief all his life, and now he was standing at the entrance to the cavern--the cavern that was associated with a story of love stronger than death--and he had just assured himself that he had flung to the seas and the winds all his hopes of that love which had been in his dreams. “It is gone--it is gone!” he cried, looking down at that narrow part of the lough where the boat had been tumbling during the afternoon. What had that adviser of his said? He remembered something of his words--something about marriage being a guarantee of love. Harold laughed grimly as he recalled the words. He knew better. The love that he had looked for was not such as was referred to by his friend Mr. Airey. It was---- But what on earth was the good of trying to recall what it was? The diamonds that Queen Guinevere flung into the river, made just the same splash as common stones would have done under the same circumstances: and the love which he had cherished was, when cast to the winds, no more worthy of being thought precious than the many other ideas which he had happily rid himself of in the course of his walk through the world. This was how he repressed
regret. Like an elderly Cupid he stood there, with little bags under his eyes and a budding corpulency apparent in his person. Both mamma and Lilly coddled and spoilt him with unremitting care and never-tiring enthusiasm. They regarded him as some gorgeous bird of paradise, which happy chance had captured between four walls--a bird that it was their duty to exert strenuous efforts to keep in its cage. Lilly, by rights, should long ago have been seated at the piano; for in the house of Czepanek silent keys were considered a shameful waste of time and an unpardonable sin. She had to practise four or five hours daily. Often, when her father in the throes of creative inspiration forgot the time allotted to his daughter's practising, she did not set to work till nearly midnight. Then she would sit half frozen, with heavy eyes, swaying on the music-stool till dawn. Lilly's mother had found her many a time in the small hours, her head pillowed on her arms, which were stretched out on the keyboard, wrapt in a profound childish slumber. Such hardships gave Lilly a distaste for the career of artist, for which her father's ambition destined her. She preferred, to serious study, getting up on her own account forbidden polkas out of old albums, the brilliant but incorrect performance of which drove her father distracted. But this evening her lesson was to be on the Sonata Pathétique, and that, as everyone knew, was no joke. For this reason she was thinking of breaking in on her father's introspective meditations, when she heard the door of the other room open. Lilly, with a bound, deserted the keyhole and ran into her mother, who was carrying up the supper things on a tray. The prematurely sunken cheeks of the lady of the house were flushed from the heat of the kitchen fire. She held her lean figure proudly erect, and in the once beautiful eyes, which gnawing connubial disappointments had converted into dull, restless slits, there was something like a gleam of joy and expectancy; for to-day she entertained high hopes that the result of her culinary skill would appeal to her husband's appetite and put him in a good temper. The sound of plates rattling, as the table was laid, brought papa to the door between the two rooms, and his head, with the sunlight playing round its halo of frizzy dark hair, appeared. "Heavens! Supper-time already!" he exclaimed, and cast up his eyes with a peculiarly wild expression. "In ten minutes," replied his wife, and a smile at the thought of the surprise dish that awaited him hovered about her dry chapped lips like a delectable secret. He now came into the room, and breathing deep and hard he said, with an effort as if speaking hurt him: "I've just been looking at my portmanteau. The strap is in two." "Do you want your portmanteau?" asked mamma. "It should always be ready in case of emergency," he answered, and his eyes wandered round the room. "A man may be summoned at any moment to this place or that, and then it's well to be prepared." It was true that, the winter before, a Berlin pianist who had agreed to appear on tour in the next town had been detained by the snowing up of his train, and the committee had telegraphed to Czepanek to take his place. But, in the height of summer, the probability of such a thing occurring again was more than remote. "I'll send Minna to the saddler's with it directly after supper," said his wife, as usual taking care not to contradict her irascible husband. He nodded a few times, lost in thought; then he went into his bedroom, while mamma hurried to the kitchen to put the finishing touches to the dainty dish. A few minutes later he reappeared carrying the portmanteau, which seemed rather full. He paused in front of the linen-press. "I was going to try, Lilly dear," he explained, "whether the score would fit into the bag. You see, if one had to go to rehearsals later----" The score of "The Song of Songs" was kept in the linen-press, being a handy place for the family to rescue this priceless treasure in case of a fire breaking out when papa chanced to be away. Lilly looked round for the bunch of keys, but mamma had taken it with her to the kitchen. "I'll go and ask for the key," she said. "No, no," he exclaimed hastily, and a slight shudder passed through him. Lilly had often noticed that he shuddered when the conversation had anything to do with mamma. "I'll run over to the saddler's myself." Lilly was horrified at the idea of her famous parent going on his own errands to a common little shop. "Let me," she cried, reaching out her hand for the bag, with the intention of saving him the trouble. He pushed her away. "You are getting too old for that sort of thing now, little girl," he said. His eyes rested with satisfaction on her tall, girlish figure, already developing the soft rounded curves of womanhood. "You are quite a signora." He patted her cheek, and fidgeted a moment with the lock of the linen-press, his lips compressed into a bitter line; then, with a half-alarmed, half-sneering glance towards the kitchen Lilly knew that glance too he went quickly out of the room went never to return. * * * * * The night that followed that rosy summer evening was never to fade from Lilly's memory. Her mother sat by the window, in a cotton dressing-jacket, and looked up and down the street with anxious, feverish eyes. Every footfall on the pavement made her start up and exclaim: "Here he comes!" Lilly knew that it was all over with her Sonata Pathétique for this night at least. A feeling of depression prompted her to appeal to her dear St. Joseph, to whom she had always confided all her small troubles since her confirmation. Many an hour had she passed in St. Ann's before his altar, the second chapel in the right aisle, dreaming and musing, as she gazed up into the kind old bearded face, and sighing without reason. But now his consolation failed her utterly, and she gave up the quest, disappointed and baffled. The last cab was heard in the streets at midnight. At one the footsteps of passers-by became rarer. Between two and three nothing was heard but the shuffling footsteps of the night-watchmen echoing through the narrow alley. At three, market waggons began to rumble, and it became light. Between three and four Lilly made a cup of boiling hot coffee for her mother, and herself ate up the cold supper, for which waiting and weeping had given her a ravenous appetite. It was nearly five when a string of belated young revellers went by, kissing their hands to the watching woman at the window, thus forcing her to withdraw. They then started a serenade in their pure clear voices, which Lilly, in the midst of her trouble and anxiety, appreciated. The singing was good, and devoid of the pedantic tricks that her father abhorred. Probably these youths were pupils of his, who had failed to recognise his house. No sooner had they gone than Lilly's mother resumed her post at the window. Lilly struggled hard not to allow herself to be overcome by sleep. She saw as through a veil her mother's scanty fair hair ruffled by the breeze, her sharp pointed nose--reddened by crying--turning first to the right and then to the left at every sound, her dressing-jacket flapping like a white flag, her thin legs crossing and uncrossing perpetually in nervous excitement. She was told to relate the story of the portmanteau and the linen-press for the fiftieth time, but her eyes would not keep open. Then suddenly she sprang up with a shrill cry. Her mother had slipped down in a dead faint, and lay like a log on the floor. CHAPTER II Kilian Czepanek did not come back. Of course, there were kindly-intentioned friends who said they had always foreseen it would happen; indeed it was a wonder that a man, so divinely gifted, with the brand of genius imprinted on his stormy brow, could have endured the trammels of convention as long as he had. Others called him a scamp and a good-for-nothing, who corrupted innocent girls and led young men astray. They considered Frau Czepanek lucky in being rid of him, and advised Lilly to pluck her father's image from her memory. Worst of all were the people who held their tongues, but sent in bills. Frau Czepanek pawned or sold all the little articles of luxury belonging to her bourgeois youth, and every present that her husband in moods of sheer wanton extravagance had lavished on her. These soon came to an end, and furniture, dress, and linen--all save absolute necessities--followed. Then at last the duns were satisfied. The choral society, which Kilian Czepanek had conducted for fifteen years, and which under his _régime_ had won no less than half a dozen prizes, expressed its appreciation of the decamped conductor's services and talents by holding the post open for six months, and paying the widow a half-year's salary. But this gracious grant came to an end also. And then began the heart-sickening begging expeditions to the houses of local magnates and wealthy residents in the town; the timid pulling of front-door bells, and scraping of feet on strangers' door-mats; the long, anxious waiting in shadowy halls and ante-rooms; the sitting down on the extreme edges of chairs; the sighing, stammering petitions, accompanied by wiping of eyes, meant to be sincere yet sounding all the time hypocritically mercenary, and failing to make the intended impression. Next came the hunt for work in shops and factories where sewing was given out--depôts of sweated industries where cheap _lingerie_ was turned out by the gross, cheap lace sewn on to cheap nightgowns and chemises, and the whole galvanised for use by the addition of buttons and buttonholes, ribbons and tapes. Now followed the period of eternal grinding at the sewing-machine, fingers covered with needle-pricks; inflamed eyes, swollen knees, vinegar and brown-paper bandages for fevered temples; the stewed tea at four in the morning; the sweet diluted coffee, warmed up three times, the so-called bread-and-butter instead of the midday roast meat, and the evening eggs--in fact, the period of wretchedness and approaching destitution. And, strange as it may seem, the further the day on which Kilian Czepanek had vanished receded into the past, the more surely did the forsaken wife count on his return. The six months had passed, and a new conductor was appointed to challenge comparisons with the old. For a fortnight the newcomer was annoyed by flattering eulogies of his predecessor in the provincial press. Then these too ceased. Oblivion followed, and the man who had so mysteriously disappeared seemed to be almost entirely forgotten. Only in a restaurant-bar here and there, or a girl's heart, did his image linger. But the wife, who at first had bitten her lips in silent anguish when his name was mentioned, now began to talk of his return as an assured and long-planned future event. What was more, she became vain again, she who in the course of married life had let her youthful prettiness and sprightly gaiety--all that he had married her for--pass under a cloud, and had fretted and worn herself to a shadow by needless self-reproaches and anxieties. After not having decked her shrunken breast with ribbon or jewel for years, or curled a lock of her straight hair, she screwed and scraped out of her meagre earnings something to spend on powder and cosmetics. When she could hardly stand for tiredness, she would paint her thin lips, and at eight o'clock in the morning come to the sewing-machine from the kitchen hearth with a freshly frizzed fringe covering the forehead that she had before allowed to get higher and balder every day. Thus she prepared for the moment of reunion. Rouged, and adorned like a bride to meet her bridegroom, she would hold out her arms to meet the repentant profligate. For it was certain he must come back. Where else would he be greeted with a smile of such perfect sympathy as hers, where else find the understanding soul whose silence is consolation and whose prayers bring peace and happiness? Would there be anywhere else one who without complaint or regret slaved for him body and soul, and submitted, as she did, to be taken or left according to his whim? So it was that she had given herself to him when she was a fair young laughing thing, careless and unsuspecting. Without conditions she had let him take her, simply because it pleased him. She had not regarded it in the light of a just recompense when her father, an honest attorney, had insisted on his leading her to the altar, a measure which had saved him from being ostracised by the whole town as a seducer. She had only cared to know that she was happy, and had not the slightest presentiment of the consequences of her gentle yielding. She accepted what came uncomplainingly, as the natural cost of the gift he had bestowed on her in himself. He would come back; whether he liked it or not, he must come back. Did she not possess something that linked her to him for all times, something that he was bound to cross her threshold to claim? Not Lilly! No doubt he loved his child, loved her with tenderness, and took delight in her outward and inward charm. Yet she was but a toy to amuse him in his idle hours; in his vagabond heart there was no place for a steady paternal love. Even in hours when he felt most lonely and depressed, he would never have dreamed of seeking solace in the company of a child. The tie was something that bound him closer to her than their child. It was a roll of music in manuscript, and that was all. It would have been easy enough for him to stuff it into the portmanteau on the day that he had started on the memorable journey. He had indeed thought of doing it, but at the last, in his eagerness to seize the moment of escape without again facing his suspicious wife, he had forgotten everything else. This roll of manuscript contained all that had been his anchor during the fifteen years of stagnation in a narrow middle-class groove, all that had linked his future with the fiery aspirations of his youth and the glorious hopefulness of his adolescence. Slender as it was, this roll of manuscript embraced his whole life's work. It was his "Song of Songs." As long as Lilly could remember, nothing in the world had ever been spoken of with such bated breath, such reverent awe, as this composition, of which no one save Lilly and her mother knew a single note. It was something as yet altogether unknown and undreamed of; it opened out new realms of sound, inaugurated the beginning of a musical development destined to rise to mystic heights and be lost in the clouds of the unattainable. It embodied the Art of the future as represented by oratorio, opera, after reaching its culmination in Wagner, having descended into abysmal depths, and the symphony no longer meeting the demands for regeneration in modern music. Oratorio was to accomplish this, not in the old exploded wooden form which pandered to an outworn ecclesiasticism, but in the new world of harmony introduced by "The Song of Songs." The score had been completed years ago, and laid aside. It would have been sacrilege to entrust its rendering to the tender mercies of provincial performers, so there it lay and rusted, unperformed. It shed beams, unseen but felt, of hope of a golden future into the grey present. It filled a child's heart with such ecstasy, devotion, and love, that it would rather have ceased to beat than be deprived of this source of noble and exquisite dreams on which it nourished itself daily. For Lilly, those sheets, held together by an india rubber band, lying in the top drawer of the linen-press, were like sacred relics, which radiated and sanctified the household. She reverenced and adored the scrawl of curly-headed black notes, and her earliest recollections were bound up with the melodies they expressed. Lilly's papa, however, objected to his sublime motifs being dragged into the light of common day, and when he caught wife or daughter humming them he would tell them to sing things more on their level. In time there was no need for his remonstrances. Mamma gave up singing altogether, and Lilly withdrew into herself. When she was alone in the house she amused herself by making a kind of drama out of "The Song of Songs," and acting it before the glass. She arrayed herself in sheets and muslin curtains, braided her hair low round her brow, and adorned it with tinsel pins. Then she declaimed, danced, laughed, and cried; went down on her knees and posed in passionate attitudes, acting Solomon's bridal rhapsody, which papa had made live again, after a lapse of twenty-five hundred years, in his great masterpiece. And now that the master had left his manuscript behind him on his disappearance from the house, it became more than ever the keystone of his family's hopes and longings. It was conceivable that he, Bohemian to the core, might cast off his wife and child, emulating the example of his own parents, who had turned him out into the streets at a tender age. But it was not conceivable that he should do anything so preposterous as weakly abandon the great work of his life, the weapon with which he might conquer the world. So the manuscript of "The Song of Songs" reposed in the drawer of the linen-press, which had been saved from the wreck when Frau Czepanek and her daughter moved to a humble attic, where the sewing-machine continued to hum and whir day and night. Here, as a symbol of coming reunion, it spread a miraculous influence around it; while the deserted wife became more withered in face and gaunt in form, and paint could no longer conceal her projecting cheekbones or the hollows beneath her haggard eyes. CHAPTER III In these days Lilly bloomed into a tall, well-developed girl, who carried her satchel of books through the streets to school with the air of a princess. She was generally dressed in a green plaid woollen frock much cockled from rain, which, despite perpetual letting down, always remained too short. Her feet were shod in a pair of down-at-heel and worn boots. She wore woollen gloves, which, pull them up as she would, left below her sleeves a hiatus of bare slender red arm. No one who saw her swinging down the street, with her easy graceful carriage, a picture of radiant health and youth, with her vivacious small head--too small for her tall figure--set on a long stemlike throat rising from broad shoulders, her white and rather prominent teeth beneath her smiling short upper lip, and with those eyes, afterwards known as "Lilly eyes"--no one noticed the poverty of her dress, or suspected that those erect, delicately formed shoulders stooped for hours over a sewing-machine. Who could guess that this magnificent young frame, with the vigorous blood coursing visibly through it, prone to blushing and paling without cause, was reared on salt potatoes, stale bread, and bad sausage? The college students went mad about her, and the verses written to her in the lower school were legion. Lilly was not indifferent to their boyish homage. When she saw a batch of students coming towards her in the street, her eyes grew dim from self-consciousness. When they saluted her--for she had made their acquaintance on the ice--she felt dizzy and ready to sink through the earth to hide her blushes. But the sensation felt after such meetings was quite lovely. She recalled for hours with delight the face of the boy who had greeted her most courteously, or the one who had blushed as rosy red as herself. He was her chosen cavalier till next time, when she fell in love with another. In spite of her numerous admirers, her school-fellows did not torment her as much as might have been expected. There was an innocent defencelessness about her which made it impossible to be her enemy. If her satchel was hidden, she only said, "Please, don't," and when the girls perched her on top of the stove, she sat there and laughed, and in addition to letting them copy her English exercises she did their sums for them. The only trouble was jealousy among her bosom friends, who flew at each other's throats on her account, for she was fickle, and dropped old friendships to take up new with an ease which startled herself. She could not help responding to every fresh overture of friendliness made to her. With her masters, too, she was popular. The rebuke, "Lilly, you are dreaming again," that came sometimes from the dais, had no sting, but a tone of playfulness in it. And when she was a new-comer, and had sat at the end of the sixth row in Class I, B, more than one hand had stroked her brown head with paternal fondness. Her nickname was "Lilly of the Eyes." Her school-fellows declared such eyes were uncommon to the point of being uncanny. They had never seen eyes like them. Sometimes they called them "witch's eyes," sometimes "cat's eyes." They said their colour was violet, and some were sure she darkened the lids with a pencil. However that might be, to look at Lilly meant looking at her eyes, and not caring much to look at anything else. Lilly went into the advanced class, called "Selecta," when she was fifteen and a half, for it had been settled that she was to earn her living as a governess. This was a great change; everything was different--teachers, girls, lessons, and friendship meant a different thing. You were not called by your Christian name. There was no throwing of paper pellets and going home to find blotting-paper in your hair. Much was said about "the sacredness of vocation," of "noble living," and consecration of life to work, and at the same time there was no end of chatter about love affairs and secret engagements. Lilly felt for the first time in her life a little envious. She was neither engaged nor had she any love affair to boast of. Anonymous presents of flowers, with verses signed "Thine for ever," of course didn't count. But in time it came. Love began to dawn in an imaginary atmosphere of marble statues and pillars, of dusky cypresses and eternally blue skies; it was the adoration of a schoolgirl for a master, and the longing to be a benefactress to the adored one. He was the assistant science-master, and taught in the junior school, where knuckles were rapped with the ruler and tongues thrust out in retort. He did nothing in the higher school, but he gave lectures to the young ladies of the Selecta on the history of Art. The very name of "Art" fills the budding soul of a young girl with ecstasy; how much more intense then was the sentiment when Art was associated with an interesting young man of delicate health, with deep-set burning eyes, and a snow-white brow--a young man who was called Arpad? Here romance ended. What remained behind it was a poor consumptive young fellow who had painfully accomplished his university career by private tutoring, only to be doomed to an early grave at the moment that he hoped to reap the fruits of his drudgery. The authorities did the best they could for him. They gave him easy work, and when they saw the hectic flush on his cheek they supplied his place and sent him home for a term. But this could not last, and, feeling that he was becoming a burden to the staff, he strove by suicidal efforts to show himself still capable of working. He volunteered to undertake all sorts of duties outside his province, and what men in health shirked he with one foot in the grave cheerfully took on his shoulders. Lilly never forgot the day on which the principal brought him into the Selecta. It was between three and four, and the last lesson was in progress. The stout figure of the principal was closely followed by the slim, rather handsome young man with a slight stoop, who had stood during prayers in the big hall at Fräulein Hennig's side, and turned down the leaves of his book while the hymn was being sung. He wore a tight-fitting grey frock-coat, which revealed the lines of his emaciated figure, and a fashionable silk waistcoat that gave a false impression of the world to which he belonged. He made a series of abrupt military bows, and appeared shy and embarrassed. "This is Dr. Mälzer," said the principal, introducing him. "He will initiate you ladies in the art of the Renaissance. I hope you will pay particular attention to the subject, which, though not obligatory, and one you will not be examined in, is of the greatest importance to general culture, and by-and-by will accelerate your progress in the study of Lessing, Goethe, and Winckelmann." The principal, with these words, retired, leaving the young lecturer nervously tugging at the blond moustache, the thin ends of which drooped on either side of his mouth. A half-sarcastic, half-shy smile hovered about his lips. He looked uncertain whether he should sit or stand on the dais. Meta Jachmann, who was always inclined to be silly, began to giggle, and set half the class giggling too. His transparent face flushed. In a voice which, weak as it was, shook his whole narrow person, he said: "Yes, ladies, laugh. You can afford to laugh in your position, for life lies before you full of possibilities of endeavour and attainment. I too may laugh over the privilege of being allowed to address you soul to soul. That does not often fall to the lot of a man at the outset of his teaching career. You will soon experience for yourselves what a happiness it is." The whole class became quiet as mice, and from that moment onwards he held it spellbound. "But my good fortune does not end there," he went on; "the authorities of this institution have been generous enough to place such confidence in my poor abilities as to entrust me with a theme that is the noblest in existence. Till the Renaissance, every thinker in history, no matter how much a revolutionist and free-lance at heart, has been made by the interpretations of history to play to the gallery in the personal expression of his ideas. The sages have labelled Plato as a mere shield-bearer of Christianity, Horace as a pedant, and Jesus as the Son of God; but no one has attempted to show Michael Angelo, Alexander Borgia, Machiavelli in any other light than that of an ego defying the world and relying on its own power in its lust for creative or destructive activity." The pupils pricked up their ears and listened. They had never heard anything like this before. They felt that he was talking out his life's blood, and at the same time that this established a tie of protective freemasonry between him and them. He continued in bold, rapid outline to draw vivid pictures of the men and period, making dead bones live. What had long been repressed and dammed up within him poured from him now in passionate eloquence. His hearers realised that this was something more than an ordinary school lesson, more even than the fruits of ripe scholarship. It was a confession of faith, and they hung on his lips with all the abandon of woman's enthusiasm for what she doesn't understand. Lilly, being a younger pupil, sat close under the dais, and she felt vaguely as if a vast flood of new melody was floating over her head; music having always played the supreme part in her life and imagination, pictures and thoughts came to her first through the world of sound. She grew pale, and gazed up at him in dawning appreciation. Through a mist of tears, her handkerchief crushed into a ball in her hand, she saw the nervous heaving of his chest, the drops on his forehead, the burning excitement that flamed in his cheeks, and she longed to laugh and cry together, to call out "Stop!" But, as she couldn't do this, she sat motionless, listening to the poor, thin voice as it proclaimed the gospel of that ancient yet ever-glorious time, and then she heard another voice deep down in her heart crying jubilantly, "It's coming!" "But what of the world," he went on, "in which that exalted life developed? Like Moses on the mountain-top, I have only seen it from afar, only lingered in its outer courts; but I have seen enough to know that, as long as breath is left in my body, my soul's yearning for it will never cease. There, gleaming palaces and temples rise like part of the soil, white among dark cypresses and evergreen leafy oaks. All that is clay here is marble there; what is here cribbed and cabined by convention, there flourishes in free creative opulence; here we have barren imitativeness, there spontaneous growth; here laboured culture, there Nature's happy abundance; here the deadening sense of utility, there luxuriant revelling in the beautiful; here, plain hard, matter-of-fact Protestantism, there the joyous _naïveté_ of Catholic paganism." Lilly's heart bounded at the compliment to her faith. In a Protestant country she had been brought up a Catholic, and though there was not much time, and never had been, for piety in her home, her soul was capable of a fair amount of religious fervour. It warmed her heart to hear her faith praised, but why it should be coupled with heathenism, which she had always been taught was wicked and deplorable, puzzled her. A whirl of chaotic, questioning thoughts distracted her attention; she found herself unable any longer to follow the speaker, and it was only after some time that she woke up to a consciousness that he was painting the South in low, loving tones. Now she took up the threads of his discourse again, and saw a gold and blue summer heaven rising above the Elysian isles, and the sun's blood-red globe drop into a violet sea, ruffled by the sirocco. She saw the shepherds feeding their goats in meadows of shining asphodel, playing on their flutes like Pan--saw the ever-verdant beech-woods stretching up to the snow-clad summits of the Apennines; breathed in the perfume of laurel, arbutus, and olive, and heard the music of the Angelus ascending heavenwards in the glow of eventide; and as she gazed up once more into his face, she was almost frightened at the martyred expression of devouring longing with which his eyes stared beyond the heads of the class into space. The school-bell sounded; the lecture was over. He looked round him bewildered, like one who had been walking in his sleep, seized his hat, and rushed out of the room. The class-room was silent as the grave. Then the tension was broken by shy whispers and fumbling for school-satchels. Lilly, without speaking a word to anyone, escaped into the street to hide her emotion. Sobbing and singing softly to herself she ran home. * * * * * The next morning excitement reigned in the Selecta. No one thought or talked of anything else but what had happened the day before. Anna Marholz, the daughter of a doctor, had interesting particulars to impart about the young teacher, who was a patient of her father's. She said it was urgently necessary that he should go to the Italian Riviera for the winter, as it was probable he could not live through it in his native climate. Lilly's heart stood still. The others laid their heads together to think of how he was to be helped. It could only be accomplished in a private way, because he had no money and no official position, and the town would therefore not bear the expenses of his foreign trip. "We will start a committee," someone proposed, and all the others agreed to the proposal with acclamation. "Thank God!" Lilly said to herself, and felt that now his life would be prolonged to fifty or sixty, at least. During the ten o'clock break a council of war was held, and Lilly, to her great delight, was appointed secretary of the committee. The first meeting was held at Klein's, the confectioner's, a few days later. They dared not go to Frangipani's, the resort of young officers and barristers. Fifteen girls consumed fifteen iced meringues and fifteen cups of chocolate, the cost of which they shared, and at the same time brought forward some practical suggestions. Emilie Faber's idea was to get up a Shakespeare reading in the town-hall and to assign the part of Romeo to the leading "star" of the provincial theatre. Everyone approved, because all the girls were crazy about the favourite actor. Not less well received was a scheme of Käthe Vitzing's, whose cousin sang tenor in the college choir, to organise an amateur concert. Rosalie Katz, more businesslike than the rest, thought of getting blank subscription-forms printed and taking them round to all the well-to-do people in the town. This plan was not so popular, but finally it was decided to accept it and to try and put all three plans into execution. Lilly, in her _rôle_ of secretary, made a note of all the suggestions, and kept saying to herself, "Hurrah, it's for _him_!" Meanwhile, the lectures on the history of art continued, as well as the sittings of the committee. The bill for refreshments mounted higher and higher, but enthusiasm for the object of the meetings became visibly damped. Not that Dr. Mälzer's lectures were in any degree less fascinating. They still held his listeners in thrall with their rich imagery and flowery language, but serious obstacles arose in the carrying out of the plans to aid him. To begin with: the popular Romeo had to appear in another town during the autumn season, and was not available; secondly, the college chorus could not get leave to join with the Selecta in giving an amateur concert; and the house-to-house collection could not be set on foot without the sanction of the police, and this no one had courage to ask for. So the great scheme of lofty benevolence gradually died out, and Lilly found herself three marks to the bad for confectionery. She knew the way to the pawnshop, alas! too well, and it required comparatively little pluck on her part to sacrifice the small gold cross she wore round her neck--a last relic of more prosperous days. She did it gladly, because it was done for him. Autumn came, and Dr. Mälzer grew worse. He coughed a great deal, and now and then covered his mouth with his pocket-handkerchief, afterwards examining it with an anxious, furtive eye. And then came the announcement that the lectures on Art would be discontinued till further notice. Anna Marholz brought the news to school that he had broken a blood-vessel. Lilly, without stopping to ask for further details, jumped to the conclusion that he was dying. After dark she found her way stealthily to his house, Anna Marholz having got his address from her father's books. There was a lamp with a green shade burning faintly in the window. Not a shadow stirred. No hand drew down the
that I will last much longer. I have reached the age at which my father died, and I fear that I shall fall a victim to the same disease as he." Though Deussen protested vigorously against this sad prediction and tried to cheer him up, Nietzsche indeed succumbed to his sad fate within two years. [Illustration: FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE FROM PHOTOGRAPH IN THE POSSESSION OF PROFESSOR DEUSSEN.] * * * * * Professor Deussen, though Nietzsche's most intimate friend, is by no means uncritical in judging his philosophy. It is true he cherishes the personal character and the ideal tendencies of his old chum, but he is not blind to his faults. Deussen says of Nietzsche: "He was never a systematic philosopher.... The great problems of epistemology, of psychology, of æsthetics and ethics are only tentatively touched upon in his writings.... There are many pearls of worth upon which he throws a brilliant side light, as it were in lightning flashes.... His overwhelming imagination is always busy. His thoughts were always presented in pleasant imagery and in language of dazzling brilliancy, but he lacked critical judgment and was not controlled by a consideration of reality. Therefore the creation of his pen was never in harmony with the actual world, and among the most valuable truths which he revealed with ingenious profundity there are bizarre and distorted notions stated as general rules although they are merely rare exceptions, as is also frequently the case in sensational novels. Thus Nietzsche produced a caricature of life which means no small danger for receptive and inexperienced minds. His readers can escape this danger only when they do what Nietzsche did not do, when they confront every thought of his step by step by the actual nature of things, and retain only what proves to be true under the touchstone of experience." Between the negation of the will and its affirmation Nietzsche granted to Deussen while still living in Basel, that the ennoblement of the will should be man's aim. The affirmation of the will is the pagan ideal with the exception of Platonism. The negation of the will is the Christian ideal, and according to Nietzsche the ennoblement of the will is realized in his ideal of the overman. Deussen makes the comment that Nietzsche's notion of the overman is in truth the ideal of all mankind, whether this highest type of manhood be called Christ or overman; and we grant that such an ideal is traceable everywhere. It is called "Messiah" among the Jews; "hero" among the Greeks, "Christ" among the Christians, and chiün, the superior man, or to use Nietzsche's language, "the overman," among the Chinese; but the characteristics with which Nietzsche endows his overman are unfortunately mere brutal strength and an unscrupulous will to play the tyrant. Here Professor Deussen halts. It appears that he knew the peaceful character of his friend too well to take his ideal of the overman seriously. We shall discuss Nietzsche's ideal of the overman more fully further down in a discussion of his most original thoughts, the typically Nietzschean ideas. [1] See Dr. Paul Deussen's _Erinnerungen an Friedrich Nietzsche._ Leipsic, 1901. EXTREME NOMINALISM According to Nietzsche, the history of philosophy from Plato to his own time is a progress of the idea that objective truth (a conception of "the true world") is not only not attainable, but does not exist at all. He expresses this idea in his Twilight of the Idols (English edition, pp. 122-123) under the caption, "How the 'True World' Finally Became a Fable," which describes the successive stages as follows: "1. The true world attainable by the wise, the pious, and the virtuous man,--he lives in it, he embodies it. "(Oldest form of the idea, relatively rational, simple, and convincing. Transcription of the proposition, 'I, Plato, am the truth,') "2. The true world unattainable at present, but promised to the wise, the pious, and the virtuous man (to the sinner who repents). "(Progress of the idea: it becomes more refined, more insidious, more incomprehensible,--it becomes feminine, it becomes Christian.) "3. The true world unattainable, undemonstrable, and unable to be promised; but even as conceived, a comfort, an obligation, and an imperative. "(The old sun still, but shining only through mist and scepticism; the idea becomes sublime, pale, northerly, Koenigsbergian.) "4. The true world--unattainable? At any rate unattained. And being unattained also unknown. Consequently also neither comforting, saving nor obligatory: what obligation could anything unknown lay upon us? "(Gray morning. First dawning of reason. Cock-crowing of Positivism.) "5. The 'true world'--an idea neither good for anything, nor even obligatory any longer,--an idea become useless and superfluous; consequently a refuted idea; let us do away with it! "(Full day; breakfast; return of _bon sens_ and cheerfulness; Plato blushing for shame; infernal noise of all free intellects,) "6. We have done away with the true world: what world is left? perhaps the seeming?... But no! in doing away with the true, we have also done away with the seeming world! "(Noon; the moment of the shortest shadow; end of the longest error; climax of mankind; _Incipit Zarathustra!_)" The reader will ask, "What next?" Probably afternoon and evening, and then night. In the night presumably "the old sun," i. e., the idea of Plato's true world, which (according to Nietzsche) grew pale in the morning, will shine again. Nietzsche's main desire was to live the real life and make his home not in an imaginary Utopia but in this actual world of ours. He reproached the philosophers as well as the religious leaders and ethical teachers for trying to make mankind believe that the teal world is purely phenomenal, for replacing it by the world of thought which they called "the true world" or the world of truth. To Nietzsche the typical philosopher is Plato. He and all his followers are accused of hypocrisy for making people believe that "the true world" of their own fiction is real and that man's ambition should be to attain to this "true world" (the world of philosophy, of science, of art, of ethical ideals) built above the real world. Nietzsche means to shatter all the idols of the past, and he has come to the conclusion that even the scientists were guilty of the same fault as the philosophers. They erected a world of thought, of subjective conception from the materials of the real world, and so he denounces even their attempts at constructing a "true world" as either a self-mystification or a lie. It is as imaginary as the world of the priest. In order to lead a life worthy of the "overman," we should assert ourselves and feel no longer hampered by rules of conduct or canons of logic or by any consideration for truth. With all his hatred of religion, Nietzsche was nevertheless an intensely religious character, and knowing that he could not clearly see a connection between his so-called "real world" and his actual surroundings, he developed all the symptoms of religious fanaticism which characterizes religious leaders of all ages. He indulged in a mystic ecstacy, preaching it as the essential feature of his philosophy, and his Dionysiac enthusiasm is not the least of the intoxicants which are contained in his thought and bring so many poetical and talented but immature minds under his control. It is obvious that "the real world" of Nietzsche is more unreal than "the true world" of philosophy and of religion which he denounces as fictitious, but he was too naive and philosophically crude to see this. Nietzsche's "real world" is a fabric of his own personal imagination, while the true world of science is at least a thought-construction of the world which pictures facts with objective exactness; it is controlled by experience and can be utilized in practical life; it is subject to criticism and its propositions are being constantly tested either to be refuted or verified. Nietzsche's "real world" is the hope (and perhaps not even a desirable hope) of a feverish brain whose action is influenced by a decadent body. Nietzsche's so-called "real world" is one ideal among many others. It is as much subjective as the ideals of other mortals,--of men who seek happiness in wealth, or in pleasures, or in fame, or in scholarship, or in a religious life--all of them imagine that the world of their thoughts is real and the goal which they endeavor to reach is the only thing that possesses genuine worth. In Nietzsche's opinion all are dreamers catching at shadows, but the shadow of his own fancy appeared to him as real. According to Nietzsche the universe is not a cosmos but a chaos. He says (_La Gaya Scienza_, German edition, p. 148): "The astral order in which we live is an exception. This order and the relative stability which is thereby caused, made the exception' of exceptions possible,--the formation of organisms. The character-total of the world is into all eternity chaos, not in the sense of a missing necessity, but of missing order, articulation, form, beauty, wisdom, and as all our æsthetic humanities may be called." In agreement with this conception of order, Nietzsche says of man, the rational animal: "I fear that animals look upon man as a being of their own kind, which in a most dangerous way has lost the sound animal-sense,--as a lunatic animal, a laughing animal, a crying animal, a miserable animal." (_La Gaya Scienza_, German edition, p. 196.) If reason is an aberration, the brute must be superior to man and instinct must range higher than logical thought. Man's reason, according to this consistent nominalist view, is purely subjective and has no prototype in the objective world. This is a feature common to all nominalistic philosophies. John Stuart Mill regards the theorems of logic and mathematics, not only not as truths, but as positive untruths. He says: "The points, lines, circles, and squares, which any one has in his mind, are (I apprehend) simply copies of the points, lines, circles, and squares which he has known in his experience. Our idea of a point, I apprehend to be simply our idea of the _minimum visibile_, the smallest portion of surface which we can see. A line, as defined by geometers, is wholly inconceivable. We can reason about a line as if it had no breadth; because we have a power, which is the foundation of all the control we can exercise over the operations of our minds; the power, when a perception is present to our senses, or a conception to our intellects, of attending to a part only of that perception or conception, instead of the whole. But we cannot conceive a line without breadth; we can form no mental picture of such a line: all the lines which we have in our minds are lines possessing breadth." Nietzsche shows his nominalistic tendencies by repeatedly pronouncing the same propositions in almost literally the same words,[1] without, however, acknowledging the school in which he picked up this error. It is quite true that mathematical lines and circles are human conceptions, but they are not purely subjective conceptions, still less untruths; they are great and important discoveries. They are not arbitrarily devised but constructed according to the laws of the uniformities that dominate existence. They represent actual features of the factors which shape the objective universe, and thus only is it possible that the astronomer through the calculation of mathematical curves can predict the motion of the stars.[2] Reason is the key to the universe, because it is the reflex of cosmic order, and the cosmic order, the intrinsic regularity and immanent harmony of the uniformities of nature, is not a subjective illusion but an objective reality. When Goethe claims that all things transitory are symbols of that which is intransitory and eternal, Nietzsche answers that the idea of anything intransitory is a mere symbol, and God (the idea of anything eternal) a poet's lie. Like a mocking-bird, the nominalist philosopher imitates the ring of Goethe's well-known lines at the conclusion of the second part of "Faust," in which the "real world" of transient things is considered as a mere symbol of the true world of eternal verities: "Das Unvergangliche Ist nur dein Gleichniss. Gott der Verfängliche Ist Dichter-Erschleichniss. Weltspiel, das herrische, Mischt Sein und Schein:-- Das Ewig-Närrische Mischt uns--hinein." "The non-deciduous Is a symbol of _thy_ sense, God ever invidious, A poetical license. World-play domineeringly Mixes semblance and fact, And between them us sneeringly The Ever-Foolish has packed." In spite of Nietzsche's hunger for the realities of life, that is to say for objectivity, he was in fact the most subjective of all philosophers--so much so that he was incapable of formulating any thought as an objectively precise statement. He did not believe in truth: "There is probability, but no truth," says he in _Der Wanderer und sein Schatten_, p. 190; and he adds concerning the measure of the value of truth (ibid., Aphorism 4): "The trouble in ascending mountains is no measure of their height, and should it be different in science?" It is true that such words as "long" and "short" are relative, because dependent on subjective needs and valuations. But must we for that reason give up all hope of describing facts in objective terms? Are not meters and foot-measures definite magnitudes, whether or not they be long for one purpose and short for another? Relativity itself admits of a description in objective terms; but if a statement of facts in objective terms were impossible, the ideals of exact science (as all ideals) would be a dream. That Nietzsche prefers the abrupt style of aphorisms to dispassionate inquisitions is a symptom that betrays the nature of his philosophy. His ideas, thus expressed, are easily understood. They are but very loosely connected, and we find them frequently contradictory. They are not presented in a logical, orderly way, but sound like reiterated challenges to battle. They are appeals to all wild impulses and a clamor for the right of self-assertion. While Nietzsche's philosophy is in itself inconsistent and illogical, it is yet born of the logic of facts; it is the consistent result and legitimate conclusion of principles uttered centuries ago and which were slowly matured in the historical development of thought. The old nominalistic school is the father of Nietzsche's philosophy. A consistent nominalist will be driven from one conclusion to another until he reaches the stage of Nietzsche, which is philosophical anarchism and extreme individualism. The nominalist denies the reality of reason; he regards the existence of universals as a fiction, and looks upon the world as a heap of particulars. He loses sight of the unity of the world and forgets that form is a true feature of things. It is form and the sameness of the laws of form which makes universality of reason possible. Nominalism rose in opposition to the medieval realism of the schoolmen who looked upon universals as real and concrete things, representing them as individual beings that existed _ante res, in rebus_, and _post res_, i. e., in the particulars, before them and after them. The realists were wrong in so far as they conceived universals as substances or distinct essences, as true realities (hence the name "realism"); only they were supposed to be of a more spiritual nature than material things but, after all, they were concrete existences. They were said to have been created by God as an artisan would make patterns or molds for the things which he proposes to produce. According to Plato, ideas serve the Creator as models of concrete objects of which they are deemed to be the prototypes. The realists were mistaken in regarding the ideal as concrete and real, but the nominalists, on the other hand, also went too far in denying the objective significance of universals and declaring that universals were mere names (_nomina_ and _flatus vocis_), i. e., words invented for the sake of conveniently thinking things and serving no other purpose. At the bottom of the controversy lies the problem as to the nature of things. The question arises, What are things in themselves? Do things, or do they not, possess an independence of their own? Kant's reply is, that things in themselves can not be known; but our reply is, that the nature of a thing consists in its form; a thing is such as it is because it has a definite form. Therefore "things in themselves" do not exist; but there are "forms in themselves." Form is not a non-entity but the most important feature of reality, and the pure laws of form are the determinative factors of the world. The sciences of the laws of pure form, logic, arithmetic, algebra, geometry, etc., are therefore the key to a comprehension of the world, and morality is the realization of ideals, i. e., of the conceptions of pure forms, which are higher, nobler, and better than those which have been actualized. From our standpoint, evolution is a process in which the eternal laws of being manifest themselves in a series of regular transformations, reaching a point at which sentiency appears. And then evolution takes the shape of progress, that is to say, sentient beings develop mind; sentiments become sensations, i. e., representative images; and words denote the universals. Then reason originates as a reflex of the eternal laws of pure form. Human reason is deepened in a scientific world-conception, and becoming aware of the moral aspect of universality it broadens out into comprehensive sympathy with all forms of existence that like ourselves aspire after a fuller comprehension of existence. Thus the personality of man is the reflex of that system of eternalities which sways the universe, and humanity is found to be a revelation of the core of the cosmos, an incarnation of Godhood. This revelation, however, is not closed. The appearance of the religions of good-will and mutual sympathy merely marks the beginning of a new era, and we may expect that the future of mankind will surpass the present, as much as the present surpasses savagery. Such is the higher humanity, the true "overman," representing a higher species of mankind, whom we expect. Nietzsche's philosophy of "unmorality" looms on the horizon of human thought as a unique conception apparently ushered into this world without any preparation and without any precedent. It sets itself up against tradition. Schopenhauer, Nietzsche's immediate predecessor, regarded history as the desolate dream of mankind, and Nietzsche exhibits a remorseless contempt for everything that comes to us as a product of history. Nietzsche scorns not only law and order, church and state, but also reason, argument, and rule; he scorns consistency and logic which are regarded as toys for weaklings or as tools of the crafty. Nietzsche is a nominalist with a vengeance. His philosophy is particularism carried to extremes. There is no unity of existence to him. The God-idea is dead--not only the old metaphysical notion of a God-individual, but also God in the sense of the ultimate ground of being, the supreme norm of the cosmos. Nietzsche's world is split up into particular selves. He does not ask how they originated; he only knows that they are here. Above all, he knows that his own self is here, and there is no bond of sympathy between it and other selves. The higher self is that which assumes dominion over the world. His ideal is brutal strength, his overman the tyrant who tramples under foot his fellowmen. Democracy is an abomination to him, and he despises the gospel of love as it is preached by both Christ and Buddha. This is the key to his anti-moralism and to the doctrine of the autonomy of selfhood. Nietzsche's philosophy might be called philosophical nihilism, if he did not object to the word. He calls it positivism, but it is particularism, or rather an aristocratic individualism which in the domain of thought plays the same role that political nihilism plays in Russia. It would dethrone the hereditary Czar, the ruler by God's grace, but it would not establish a republic. It would set on the throne a ruthless demagogue, a self-made political boss--the overman. It is the philosophy of protest, and Nietzsche is conscious of being Slavic in thought and aspiration. Nor does he forget that his ancestors belonged to the nobility. He claims to have been descended from a Polish nobleman by the name of Niëtzki, a Protestant who came to Germany in the eighteenth century as a religious refugee. Nietzsche's love of Slavism manifested itself in his childhood, for when the news of the fall of Sebastopol became known, Nietzsche, at that time a mere boy, was so dejected that he could not eat and gave expression to his chagrin in mournful strains of verse. He who has faith in truth accepts truth as authority; he who accepts truth as authority recognizes duty; he who recognizes duty beholds a goal of life. He has found a purpose for which life appears worth living, and reaches out beyond the bounds of his narrow individuality into the limitless cosmos. He transcends himself, he grows in truth, he increases in power, he widens in his sympathies. Here we touch upon the God problem. In denning God as the ultimate authority of conduct, we are confronted by the dilemma, Is there, or is there not a norm of morality, a standard of right and wrong, to which the self must submit? And this question is another version of the problem as to the existence of truth. Is there truth which we must heed, or is truth a fiction and is the self not bound to respect anything? We answer this question as to the existence of truth in the affirmative, Nietzsche in the negative. But he who rejects truth cuts himself loose from the fountain-head of the waters of life. He may deify selfhood, but his own self will die of its self-apotheosis. His divinity is not a true God-incarnation, it is a mere assumption and the self-exaltation of a pretender. Nietzsche's philosophy is more consistent than it appears on its face. Being the negation of the right of consistency, its lack of consistency is its most characteristic feature. If the intellect is truly, as Schopenhauer suggests, the servant of the will, then there is no authority in reason, and arguments have no strength. All quarrels are simply questions of power. Then, there is might, but not right; right is simply the _bon plaisir_ of might. Then there is no good nor evil; good is that which I will, bad is that which threatens to thwart my will. Good and evil are distinctions invented for the enslavement of the masses, but the free man, the genius, the aristocrat, who craftily tramples the masses under foot, knows no difference. He is beyond good and evil. This, indeed, is the consequence which Nietzsche boldly draws. It is a consistent anarchism; it is unmoralism, a courageous denial of ethical rule; and a proud aristocratism, the ruthless shout of triumph of the victor who hails the doctrine of the survival of the strongest and craftiest as a "joyful science." Nietzsche would not refute the arguments of those who differ from him; for refutation of other views does not befit a positive mind that posits its own truth. "What have I to do with refutations!" exclaims Nietzsche in the Preface to his Genealogy of Morals. The self is lord. There is no law for the lord, and so he denounces the ethics of Christianity as slave-morality, and preaches the lord-morality of the strong which is self-assertion. Morality itself is denounced by Nietzsche as immoral. Morality is the result of evolution, and man's moral ideas are products of conditions climatic, social, economical, national, religious, and what not. Why should we submit to the tyranny of a rule which after all proves to be a relic of barbarism? Nietzsche rejects morality as incompatible with the sovereignty of selfhood, and, pronouncing our former judgment a superstition, he proposes "a transvaluation of all values." The self must be established as supreme ruler, and therefore all rules, maxims, principles, must go, for the very convictions of a man are mere chains that fetter the freedom of his soul. [1] _La Gaya Scienza_, German edition, p. 154; and _passim_ in _Menschliches_, etc. [2] For further details of a refutation of this wrong conception of geometry, see the author's _Foundation of Mathematics_. A PHILOSOPHY OF ORIGINALITY One might expect that Nietzsche, who glories in the triumph of the strong over the weak in the struggle for life, red in tooth and claw, would look up to Darwin as his master. But Nietzsche recognizes no, master, and he emphasizes this by speaking in his poetry of Darwin as "this English joker," whose "mediocre reason" is accepted for philosophy.[1] To Nietzsche that which exists is the mere incidental product of blind forces. Instead of working for a development of the better from the best of the present, which is the method of nature, he shows his contempt for the human and all-too-human; he prophesies a deluge and hopes that from its floods the overman will emerge whose seal of superiority will be the strength of the conqueror that enables him to survive in the struggle for existence. Nietzsche has looked deeply into the apparent chaos of life that according to Darwin is a ruthless struggle for survival. He avoids the mistake of those sentimentalists who believe that goody-goodyness can rule the world, who underrate the worth of courage and over-rate humility, and who would venture to establish peace on earth by grounding arms. He sees the differences that exist between all things, the antagonism that obtains everywhere, and preferring to play the part of the hammer, he showers expressions of contempt upon the anvil. And Nietzsche's self-assertion is immediate and direct. He does not pause to consider what his self is, neither how it originated nor what will become of it. He takes it as it is and opposes it to the authority of other powers, the state, the church, and the traditions of the past. An investigation of the nature of the self might have dispelled the illusion of his self-glorification, but he never thinks of analysing its constitution. Bluntly and without any reflection or deliberation he claims the right of the sovereignty of self. He seems to forget that there are different selves, and that what we need most is a standard by which we can gauge their respective worth, and not an assertion of the rights of the self in general. We do not intend to quarrel with Nietzsche's radicalism. Nor do we underrate the significance of the self. We, too, believe that every self has the liberty to choose its own position and may claim as many rights as it pleases provided it can maintain them. If it cannot maintain them it will be crushed; otherwise it may conquer its rivals and suppress counter-claims; but therefore the wise man looks before he leaps. Reckless self-assertion is the method of brute creation. Neither the lion nor the lamb meditate on their fate; they simply follow their instincts. They are carnivorous or herbivorous by nature through the actions of their ancestors. This is what Buddhists call the law of deeds or _Karma_. Man's karma leads higher. Man can meditate on his own fate, and he can discriminate. His self is a personality, i. e., a self-controlled commonwealth of motor ideas. Man does not blindly follow his impulses but establishes rules of action. He can thus abbreviate the struggle and avoid unnecessary friction; he can rise from brute violence to a self-contained and well-disciplined strength. Self-control (i. e., ethical guidance) is the characteristic feature of the true "overman"; but Nietzsche knows nothing of self-control; he would allow the self blindly to assert itself after the fashion of animal instincts. Nietzsche is the philosopher of instinct. He spurns all logical order, even truth itself. He has a contempt for every one who learns from others, for he regards such a man as a slave to other people's thought. His ambition for originality is expressed in these four lines which he inserted as a motto to the second edition of _La Gaya Scienza_: "Ich wohne in meinem eignen Haus, Hab' niemandem nie nichts nachgemacht Und--lachte noch jeden Meister aus, Der nicht sich selber ausgelacht." We translate faithfully, preserving even the ungrammatical use of the double negative, as follows: "In my own house do I reside, Did never no one imitate, And every master I deride, Save if himself he'd derogate." We wonder that Nietzsche did not think of Goethe's little rhyme, which seems to suit his case exactly: "A fellow says: 'I own no school or college; No master lives whom I acknowledge; And pray don't entertain the thought That from the dead I e'er learned aught.' This, if I rightly understand, Means: 'I'm a fool by own command.'" Nietzsche observes that the thoughts of most philosophers are secretly guided by instincts. He feels that all thought is at bottom a "will for power," and the will for truth has no right to exist except it serve the will for power. He reproaches philosophers for glorifying truth. Fichte in his _Duties of the Scholar_ says: "My life and my fate are nothing; but the results of my life are of great importance. I am a priest of Truth; I am in the service of Truth; I feel under obligation to do, to risk, and to suffer anything for truth." Nietzsche declares that this is shallow. Will for truth, he says, should be called "will to make being thinkable." Here, it seems to us, Nietzsche simply replaces the word "truth" by one of its functions. Truth is a systematic representation of reality, a comprehensive description of facts; the result being that "existence is made thinkable." Nietzsche is in a certain sense right when he says that truth in itself is nothing; for every representation of reality must serve a purpose, otherwise it is superfluous and useless. And the purpose of truth is the furtherance of life. Nietzsche instinctively hits the right thing in saying that at the bottom of philosophy there is the will for power. In spite of our school-philosopher's vain declamations of "science for its own sake," genuine philosophy will never be anything else than a method for the acquisition of power. But this method is truth. Nietzsche errs when he declares that "the head is merely the intestine of the heart." The head endeavors to find out the truth, and the truth is not purely subjective. It is true that truth is of no use to a man unless he makes it his own; he must possess it; it must be part of himself, but he cannot create it. Truth cannot be made; it must be discovered. Since the scholar's specialized business is the elucidation of the method of discovering the truth--not its purpose, not its application in practical life--Fichte's ideal of the aim of scholarship remains justified. Omit the ideal of truth in a philosophy, and it becomes an _ignis fatuus_, a will-o'-the-wisp, that will lead people astray. Truth makes existence thinkable, but thinkableness alone is not as yet a test of truth. The ultimate test of truth is its practical application. There is something wrong with a theory that does not work, and thus the self has a master, which is reality, the world in which it lives, with its laws and actualities. The subjective self must measure its worth by the objective standard of truth--to be obtained through exact inquiry and scientific investigation. The will for power, in order to succeed, must be clarified by a methodical comprehension of facts and conditions. The contradictory impulses in one's own self must be systematized so that they will not collide and mutually annihilate themselves; and the comprehension of this orderly disposition is called reason. Nietzsche is on the right track when he ridicules such ideals as "virtue for virtue's sake," and even "truth for truth's sake." Virtue and truth are for the sake of life. They have not their purpose in themselves, but their nature consists in serving the expansion and further growth of the human soul. This is a truth which we have always insisted upon and which becomes apparent when those people who speak of virtue for its own sake try to define virtue, or determine the ultimate standard of right and wrong, of goodness and badness. We say, that whatever enhances soulgrowth, thus producing higher life and begetting a superior humanity, is good; while whatever cripples or retards those aspirations is bad. Further, truth is not holy in itself. It becomes holy in the measure that it serves man's holiest aspirations. We sometimes meet among scientists, and especially among philologists, men who with the ideal of "truth for truth's sake," pursue some very trivial investigations, such, for example, as the use of the accusative after certain prepositions in Greek, or how often Homer is guilty of a hiatus. They resemble Faust's famulus Wagner, whom Faust characterizes as a fool ".... whose choice is To stick in shallow trash for ever more, Who digs with eager hand for buried ore, And when he finds an angle-worm rejoices." Thus there are many trivial truths of no importance, the investigation of which serves no useful purpose. For instance, whether the correct pronunciation of the Greek letter _êta_; was _ee_ or _ay_ need not concern us much, and the philologist who devotes all his life and his best strength to its settlement is rather to be pitied than admired. Various truths are very different in value, for life and truth become holy according to their importance. All this granted, we need not, with Nietzsche, discard truth, reason, virtue, and all moral aspirations. Nietzsche apparently is under the illusion that reason, systematic thought, moral discipline and self-control, are external powers, and in his love of liberty he objects to their authority. Did he ever consider that thought is not an external agent, but a clarification of man's instincts, and that discipline is, or at least in its purpose and final aim ought to be, self-regulation, so that our contradictory thoughts would not wage an internecine war? Thus, Nietzsche, the instinct-philosopher, appears as an ingenious boy whose very immaturity is regarded by himself as the highest blossom of his existence. Like an intoxicated youth, he revels in his irresponsibility and laughs at the man who has learned to take life seriously. Because the love of truth originates from instincts, Nietzsche treats it as a mere instinct, and nothing else. He forgets that in the evolution of man's soul all instincts develop into something higher than instinct, and the love of truth develops into systematic science. Nietzsche never investigated what his own self consisted of. He never analyzed his individuality. Other-wise he would have learned that he received the most valuable part of his being from others, and that the bundle of instincts which he called his sovereign self was nothing but the heirloom of the ages that preceded him. In spite of his repudiation of any debt to
week. The Brookses had lived for three days on cream toast and sardines, which was all the upstairs girl had in her culinary repertoire. "And look at me," added Marion, "with our old family cook, who can make the best things in the world, and I can hardly afford to keep her! But I couldn't drive her away if I tried." Course, with our havin' Professor and Madame Battou, the old French couple we'd annexed over a year ago in town, we had no kick comin'. Not even the sugar and flour shortage seemed to trouble them, and our fancy meals continued regular as clock work. But on the way home Vee and I got to talkin' about what hard times the neighbors was havin'. "I guess what they need out here," says I, "is one of them army kitchens, that would roll around two or three times a day deliverin' hot nourishment from door to door." And I'd hardly finished what I'd meant for a playful little remark before Vee stops sudden, right in the middle of the road, and lets out an excited squeal. "Torchy!" says she. "Why on earth didn't you suggest that before!" "Because this foolish streak has just hit me," says I. "But it's the very thing," says she, clappin' her hands. "Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "For Marion," says she. "Don't you see?" "But she's no perambulatin' rotisserie, is she?" says I. "She might be," says Vee. "And she shall." "Oh, very well," says I. "If you've decided it that way, I expect she will. But I don't quite get you." When Vee first connects with one of her bright ideas, though, she's apt to be a little puzzlin' in her remarks about it. As a matter of fact, her scheme is a bit hazy, but she's sure it's a winner. "Listen, Torchy," says she. "Here are all these Harbor Hills people--perhaps a hundred families--many of them with poor cooks, some with none at all. And there is Marion with that perfectly splendid old Martha of hers, who could cook for all of them." "Oh, I see," says I. "Marion hangs out a table-board sign?" "Stupid!" says Vee. "She does nothing of the sort. People don't want to go out for their meals; they want to eat at home. Well, Marion brings them their meals, all deliciously cooked, all hot, and ready to serve." "With the kitchen range loaded on a truck and Martha passin' out soup and roasts over the tailboard, eh?" says I. But once more I've missed. No, the plan is to get a lot of them army containers, such as they send hot chow up to the front trenches in; have 'em filled by Martha at home, and delivered by Marion to her customers. "It might work," says I. "It would need some capital, though. She'd have to invest in a lot of containers, and she'd need a motor truck." "I will buy those," says Vee. "I'm going in with her." "Oh, come!" says I. "You'd look nice, wouldn't you!" "You mean that people would talk?" comes back Vee. "What do I care? It's quite as patriotic and quite as necessary as Red Cross work, or anything else. It would be scientific food conservation, man-power saving, all that sort of thing. And think what a wonderful thing it would be for the neighborhood." "Maybe Marion wouldn't see it that way," I suggests. "Drivin' a dinner truck around might not appeal to her. You got to remember she's more or less of an old maid. She might have notions." "Trust her," says Vee. "But I mean to have my plan all worked out before I tell her a word. When you go to town tomorrow, Torchy, I want you to find out all about those containers--how much the various compartments will hold, and how much they cost. Also about a light motor truck. There will be other details, too, which I will be thinking about." Yes, there were other details. Nobody seemed to know much about such a business. It had been tried in places. Vee heard of something of the sort that was being tested up on the East Side. So it was three or four days before she was ready to spring this new career on Marion. But one night, after dinner, she announces that she's all set and drags me down there with her. Outside of the old Gray house we finds a limousine, with the driver dozin' inside. "It's the Biggles car!" whispers Vee. "Oh, what if he should be---- Come, Torchy! Quick!" "You wouldn't break in on a fond clinch, would you?" I asks. "If it came to that, certainly," says Vee, pushin' the front-door button determined. I expect she would have, too. But Biggles hadn't got that far--not quite. He's on the mat all right, though, with his fat face sort of flushed and his eyes popped more'n usual. And Marion Gray seems to be sort of fussed, too. She is some tinted up under the eyes, and when she sees who it is she glances at Vee sort of appealin'. "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt," says Vee, marchin' right in and takin' Marion by the arm. "You'll pardon me, I hope, Mr. Biggles, but I must speak to Miss Gray at once about--about something very important." And almost before "Puffy" Biggles knows what's happened he's left staring at an empty armchair. In the cozy little library Vee pushes Marion down on a window seat and camps beside her. Trust Vee for jabbin,' the probe right in, too. "Tell me," she demands whispery, "was--was he at it again?" Marion pinks up more'n ever. And, say, with them shy brown eyes of hers, and all the curves, she ain't so hard to look at. "Yes," admits Marion. "You see, I had promised to give him a final answer tonight." "But surely, Marion," says Vee, "you'd never in the world tell him that you----" "I don't know," breaks in Marion, her voice trembly. "There seems to be nothing else." "Isn't there, though!" says Vee. "Just you wait until you hear." And with that she plunges into a rapid outline sketch of this dinner dispensary stunt, quotin' facts and figures and givin' a profit estimate that sounded more or less generous to me. "So you see," she goes on enthusiastic, "you could keep your home, and you could keep Martha, and you would be doing something perfectly splendid for the whole community. Besides, you would be entirely independent of--of everyone." "But do you think I could do it?" asks Marion. "I know you could," says Vee. "Anyway, we could between us. I will furnish the capital, and keep the accounts and help you plan the daily menus. You will do the marketing and delivering. Martha will do the cooking. And there you are! We may have to start with only a few family orders at first, but others will come in fast. You'll see." By that time Marion was catching the fever. Her eyes brighten and her chin comes up. "I believe we could do it," says she. "And you're willing to try?" asks Vee. Marion nods. "Then," says Vee, "Mr. Biggles ought to be told that he needn't wait around any longer." "Oh, I don't see how I can," wails Marion. "He--he's such a----" "A sticker, eh? I know," says Vee. "And it's a shame that he should have another chance to bother you. Torchy, don't you suppose you could do it for her?" "What?" says I. "Break it to Biggles? Why, I could do it swell. Leave it to me. I'll shunt him on the siding so quick he won't know he's ever been on the main track." I don't waste any diplomatic language doin' it, either. On my way in where he's waiting I passes through the hall and gathers up his new derby and yellow gloves, holdin' 'em behind me as I breaks in on him. "Excuse me, Mr. Biggles," says I, "but it's all off." "I--I beg pardon?" says he, gazin' at me fish-eyed and stupid. "Ah, let's not run around in circles," says I. "Miss Gray presents her compliments, and all that sort of stuff, but she's goin' into another line. If you must know, she's going to bust up the cook combine, and from now on she'll be mighty busy. Get me?" Biggles stiffens and stares at me haughty. "I don't in the least understand anything of all this," says he. "I had an appointment with Marion for this evening; something quite important to--to us both. I may as well tell you that I had asked Marion a momentous question. I am waiting for her answer." "Well, here it is," says I, holdin' out the hat. Biggles, he gurgles something indignant and turns purple in the gills, but he ends by snatchin' away the derby and marchin' stiff to the door. "Understand," says he, with his hand on the knob, "I do not accept your impertinence as a reply. I--I shall see Marion again." "Sure you will," says I. "She'll be around to get your dinner order early next week." "Bah!" says Biggles, bangin' the door behind him. But, say, inside of five minutes he'd been wiped off the slate, and them two girls was plannin' their hot-food campaign as busy and excited as if it was Marion's church weddin' they were doping out. It's after midnight before they breaks away, too. You know Vee, though. She ain't one to start things and then quit. She's a stayer. And some grand little hustler, too. By Monday mornin' the Harbor Hills Community Kitchen Co. was a going concern. And before the week was out they had more'n forty families on the standin' order list, with new squads of soup scorchers bein' fired every day. What got a gasp out of me was the first time I gets sight of Marion Gray in her working rig. Nothing old-maidish about that costume. Not so you'd notice. She's gone the limit--khaki riding pants, leather leggins and a zippy cloth cap cut on the overseas pattern. None of them Women's Motor Corps girls had anything on her. And maybe she ain't some picture, too, as she jumps in behind the wheel of the truck and steps on the gas pedal! Also, I was some jarred to learn that the enterprise was a payin' one almost from the start. Folks was just tickled to death with havin' perfectly good meals, well cooked, well seasoned and pipin' hot, set down at their back doors prompt every day, with no fractious fryin'-pan pirates growlin' around the kitchens, and no local food profiteers soakin' 'em with big weekly bills. This has been goin' on a month, when one day as I comes home Vee greets me with a flyin' tackle. "Oh, Torchy!" she squeals, "what do you think has happened?" "I know," says I. "Baby's cut a tooth." "No," says she. "It's--it's about Marion." "Oh!" says I. "She ain't bumped somebody with the truck, has she?" "How absurd!" says Vee. "But, listen, Captain Ellery Prescott has come back." "What! The old favorite?" says I. "But I thought he was over with Pershing?" "Not yet," says Vee. "He has been out at some Western camp training recruits all this time. But now he has his orders. He is to sail very soon. And he's seen Marion." "Has he?" said I. "Did it give him a jolt, or what?" Vee giggles and pulls my head down so she can whisper in my ear. "He thought her perfectly stunning, as she is, of course. And they're to be married day after tomorrow." "Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "That puts a crimp in the ready-made dinner business, I expect." "Not at all," says Vee. "Until he comes back, after the war, Marion is going to carry on." "Anyway," says I, "it ends 'Puffy' Biggies as an impendin' tragedy, don't it? And I expect that's worth while, too." CHAPTER II OLD HICKORY BATS UP ONE Anybody would most think I'd been with the Corrugated Trust long enough to know that Old Hickory Ellins generally gets what he wants, whether it's quick action from an office boy or a two-thirds majority vote from the board of directors. But once in a while I seem to forget, and shortly after that I'm wonderin' if it was a tank I went up against so solid, or if someone threw the bond safe at me. What let me in wrong this last time was a snappy little remark I got shot my way right here in the general offices. I was just back from a three-days' chase after a delayed shipment of bridge girders and steel wheelbarrows that was billed for France in a rush, and I'd got myself disliked by most of the traffic managers between here and Altoona, to say nothing of freight conductors, yard bosses and so on. But I'd untangled those nine cars and got 'em movin' toward the North River, and now I was steamin' through a lot of office detail that had piled up while I was gone. I'd lunched luxurious on an egg sandwich and a war doughnut that Vincent had brought up to me from the arcade automat, and I'd 'phoned Vee that I might not be out home until the 11:13, when in blows this potty party with the poison ivy leaves on his shoulder straps and demands to see Mr. Ellins at once. Course, it's me with my heels together doin' the zippy salute. "Sorry, major," says I, "but Mr. Ellins won't be in until 10:30." "Hah!" says he, like bitin' off a piece of glass. "And who are you, lieutenant!" "Special detail from the Ordnance Department, sir," says I. "Oh, you are, eh?" he snorts. "Another bomb-proofer! Well, tell Mr. Ellins I shall be back at 11:15--if this sector hasn't been captured in the meantime," and as he double-quicks out he near runs down Mr. Piddie, our rubber-stamp office manager, who has towed him in. As for me, I stands there swallowin' air bubbles until my red-haired disposition got below the boiling point once more. Then I turns to Piddie. "You heard, didn't you?" says I. Piddie nods. "But I don't quite understand," says he. "What did he mean by--er--bomb-proofer?" "Just rank flattery, Piddie," says I. "The rankest kind. It's his way of indicatin' that I'm a yellow dog hidin' under a roll-top desk for fear someone'll kick me out where a parlor Pomeranian will look cross at me. Excuse me if I don't seem to work up a blush. Fact is, though, I'm gettin' kind of used to it." "Oh, I say, though!" protests Piddie. "Why, everyone knows that you----" "That's where you're dead wrong, Piddie," I breaks in. "What everybody really knows is that while most of the young hicks who've been Plattsburged into uniforms are already across Periscope Pond helpin' swat the Hun, I'm still floatin' around here with nothing worse than car dust on my tailor-built khaki. Why, even them bold Liberty bond patriots who commute on the 8:03 are tired of asking me when I'm going to be sent over to tell Pershing how it ought to be done. But when it comes to an old crab of a swivel chair major chuckin' 'bomb-proofer' in my teeth--well, I guess that'll be about all. Here's where I get a revise or quit. Right here." And it was sentiments like that, only maybe worded not quite so brash, that I passed out to Old Hickory a little later on. He listens about as sympathetic as a traffic cop hearin' why you tried to rush the stop signal. "I think we have discussed all that before, young man," says he. "The War Department has recognized that, as the head of an essential industry, I am entitled to a private secretary; also that you might prove more useful with a commission than without one. And I rather think you have. So there you are." "Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but I can't see it that way. I don't know whether I'm private seccing or getting ready for a masquerade ball. Any one-legged man could do what I'm doing. I'm ready to chuck the commission and enlist." "Really!" says he. "Well, in the first place, my son, a war-time commission is something one doesn't chuck back at the United States government because of any personal whim. It isn't being done. And then again, you tried enlisting once, didn't you, and were turned down?" "But that was early in the game," says I, "when the recruiting officers weren't passing any but young Sandows. I could get by now. Have a heart, Mr. Ellins. Lemme make a try." He chews his cigar a minute, drums thoughtful on the mahogany desk, and then seems to have a bright little idea. "Very well, Torchy," says he, "we'll see what my friend, Major Wellby, can do for you when he comes in." "Him!" says I. "Why, he'd do anything for me that the law didn't stop him from." And sure enough, when the major drifts in again them two was shut in the private office for more'n half an hour before I'm called in. I could guess just by the way the major glares fond at me that if he could work it he'd get me a nice, easy job mowin' the grass in No Man's Land, or some snap like that. "Huh!" says he, givin' me the night court up and down. "Wants an active command, does he? And his training has been what? Four years as office boy, three as private secretary! It's no use, Ellins. We're not fighting this war with waste baskets or typewriters, you know." "Oh, come, major!" puts in Old Hickory. "Why be unreasonable about this? I will admit that you may be right, so far as it's being folly to send this young man to the front. But I do insist that as a lieutenant he is rather useful just where he is." "Bah!" snorts the major. "So is the farmer who's raising hogs and corn. He's useful. But we don't put shoulder straps on him, or send him to France in command of a company. For jobs like that we try to find youngsters who've been trained to handle men; who know how to get things done. What we don't want is--eh? Someone calling me on the 'phone? All right. Yes, this is Major Wellby. What? Oh, it can't be done today! Yes, yes! I understand all that. But see here, captain, that transport is due to sail at--hey, central! I say, central! Oh, what's the use?" And as the major bangs up the receiver his face looks like a strawb'ry shortcake just ready to serve. Somehow Mr. Ellins seems to be enjoyin' the major's rush of temperament to the ears. Anyhow, there's a familiar flicker under them bushy eyebrows of his and I ain't at all surprised when he remarks soothin': "I gather, major, that someone can't seem to get something done." "Precisely," says the major, moppin' a few pearly beads off his shiny dome. "And when a regular army captain makes up his mind that a thing can't be done--well, it's hopeless, that's all. In this instance, however, I fear he's right, worse luck!" "Anyway," suggests Mr. Ellins, "he has made you think that the thing is impossible, eh?" "Think!" growls the major, glancin' suspicious at Old Hickory. "I say, Ellins, what are you getting at? Still harping on that red tape notion, are you? Perhaps you imagine this to be a case where, if you could only turn loose your wonderful organization, you could work a miracle?" "No, major," says Old Hickory. "We don't claim to work in miracles; but when we decide that a thing ought to be done at a certain time--well, generally it gets done." "Just like that, eh?" grins the major sarcastic. "Really, Ellins, you big business men are too good to be true. But see here; why not tap your amazing efficiency for my benefit. This little job, for instance, which one of our poor misguided captains reports as impossible within the time limit. I suppose you would merely press a button and----" "Not even that," breaks in Mr. Ellins. "I would simply turn it over to Torchy here--and he'd do it." The major glances at me careless and shrugs his shoulders. "My dear Ellins," says he, "you probably don't realize it, but that's the sort of stuff which adds to the horrors of war. Here you haven't the vaguest idea as to what----" "Perhaps," cuts in Old Hickory, "but I'll bet you a hundred to twenty-five." "Taken," says the major. Then he turns to me. "When can you start, lieutenant?" "As soon as I know where I'm starting for, sir," says I. "How convenient," says he. "Well, then, here is an order on the New York Telephone Co. for five spools of wire which you'll find stored somewhere on Central Park South. See if you can get 'em." "Yes, sir," says I. "And suppose I can?" "Report to me at the Plutoria before 5:30 this afternoon," says he. "I shall be having tea there. Ellins, you'd better be on hand, too, so that I can collect that hundred." And that's all there was to it. I'm handed a slip of paper carrying the Quartermaster General's O. K., and while these two old sports are still chucklin' at each other I've grabbed my uniform cap off the roll-top and have caught an express elevator. Course, I expected a frame-up. All them army officers are hard boiled eggs when it comes to risking real money, and I knew the major must think his twenty-five was as safe as if he'd invested it in thrift stamps. As for Old Hickory Ellins, he'd toss away a hundred any time on the chance of pulling a good bluff. So I indulges in a shadowy little grin myself and beats it up town. Simple enough to locate them spools of wire. Oh, yes. They're right in the middle of the block between Sixth and Broadway, tucked away inconspicuous among as choice a collection of contractor's junk as you can find anywhere in town, and that's sayin' a good deal. But maybe you've noticed what's been happenin' along there where Fifty-ninth street gets high-toned? Looks like an earthquake had wandered by, but it's only that down below they're connectin' the new subway with another East river tunnel. And if there's anything in the way of old derricks, or scrap iron, or wooden beams, or construction sheds that ain't been left lying around on top it's because they didn't have it on hand to leave. Cute little things, them spools are, too; about six feet high, three wide, and weighin' a ton or so each, I should judge. And to make the job of movin' 'em all the merrier an old cement mixer has been at work right next to 'em and the surplus concrete has been thrown out until they've been bedded in as solid as so many bridge piers. I climbs around and takes a look. "How cunnin'!" says I. "Why, they'd make the Rock of Ages look like a loose front tooth. And all I got to do is pull 'em up by the roots, one at a time. Ha, ha! Likewise, tee-hee!" It sized up like a bad case of bee bite with me at the wrong end of the stinger. Still, I was just mulish enough to stick around. I had nearly three hours left before I'd have to listen to the major's mirthsome cackle, and I might as well spend part of it thinkin' up fool schemes. So I walks around that cluster of cement-set spools some more. I even climbs on top of one and gazes up and down the block. They were still doing things to make it look less like a city street and more like the ruins of Louvain. Down near the Fifth Avenue gates was the fenced-in mouth of a shaft that led somewhere into the bowels of Manhattan. And while I was lookin' out climbs a dago, unrolls a dirty red flag, and holds up the traffic until a dull "boom" announces that the offensive is all over for half an hour or so. Up towards Columbus Circle more industry was goin' on. A steam roller was smoothin' out a strip of pavement that had just been relaid, and nearer by a gang was tearin' up more of the asphalt. I got kind of interested in the way they was doin' it, too. You know, they used to do this street wreckin' with picks and crowbars, but this crowd seemed to have more modern methods. They was usin' three of these pneumatic drills and they sure were ripping it up slick and speedy. About then I noticed that their compressor was chugging away nearly opposite me and that the lines of hose stretched out fifty feet or more. "Say!" says I jerky and breathless, but to nobody in particular. I was just registerin' the fact that I'd had a sudden thought. A few minutes before, too, I'd seen a squad of rookies wander past and into the park. I remembered noticin' what a husky, tanned lot they were, and from their hat cords that they belonged to the artillery branch. Well, that was enough. In a flash I'd shinned over the stone wall and was headin' 'em off. You know how these cantonment delegations wander around town aimless when they're dumped down here on leave waiting to be shunted off quiet onto some transport? No friends, mighty little money, and nothing to do but tramp the streets or hang around the Y. They actually looked kind of grateful when I stops 'em and returns their salute. As luck would have it there's a top sergeant in the bunch, so I don't have to make a reg'lar speech. "It's this way, sergeant," says I. "I'm looking for a few volunteers." "There's ten of us, sir," says he, "with not a thing on our hands but time." "Then perhaps you'll help me put over something on a boss ditch digger," says I. "It's nothing official, but it may help General Pershing a whole lot." "We sure will," says the sergeant. "Now then, men. 'Shun! And forget those dope sticks for a minute. How'll you have 'em, lieutenant--twos or fours?" "Twos will look more impressive, I guess," says I. "And just follow me." "Fall in!" says the sergeant. "By twos! Right about! March!" So when I rounds into the street again and bears down on this gang foreman I has him bug-eyed from the start. He don't seem to know whether he's being pinched or not. "What's your name, my man?" says I, wavin' the Q. M.'s order threatenin'. It's Mike something or other, as I could have guessed without him near chokin' to get it out. "Very well, Mike," I goes on, as important as I knew how. "See those spools over there that you people have done your best to bury? Well, those have been requisitioned from the Telephone Company by the U. S. army. Here's the order. Now I want you to get busy with your drill gang and cut 'em loose." "But--but see here, boss," sputters Mike, "'tis a private contract they're workin' on and I couldn't be after----" "Couldn't, eh?" says I. "Lemme tell you something. That wire has to go on a transport that's due to sail the first thing in the morning. It's for the Signal Corps and they need it to stretch a headquarters' line into Berlin." "Sorry, boss," said Mike, "but I wouldn't dast to----" "Sergeant," says I, "do your duty." Uh-huh! That got Mike all right. And when we'd yanked him up off his knees and convinced him that he wouldn't be shot for an hour or so yet he's so thankful that he gets those drills to work in record time. It was a first-class hunch, if I do have to admit it myself. You should have seen how neat them rapid fire machines begun unbuttonin' those big wooden spools, specially after a couple of our doughboy squad, who'd worked pneumatic riveters back home, took hold of the drills. Others fished some hand sledges and crowbars out of a tool shed and helped the work along, while Mike encourages his gang with a fluent line of foreman repartee. Course, I didn't have the whole thing doped out at the start, but gettin' away with this first stab only showed me how easy it was if you wasn't bashful about callin' for help. From then on I didn't let much assistance get away from me, either. Yankin' the spools out to the street level by hookin' on the steam roller was my next play, but commandeerin' a sand blast outfit that was at work halfway down the block was all Mike's idea. "They need smoothin' up a bit, boss," says he. And inside of half an hour we had all five of them spools lookin' new and bright, like they'd just come from the mill. "What next, sir?" asks the sergeant. "Why," says I, "the fussy old major who's so hot for getting these things is waiting at the Plutoria, about ten blocks down. Maybe he wants 'em there. I wonder if we could----" "Sure!" says the sergeant. "This heavy gun bunch can move anything. Here! I'll show 'em how." With that he runs a crowbar through the center of one of the spools, puts a man on either side to push, and rolls it along as easy as wheelin' a baby carriage. "Swell tactics, sergeant," says I. "And just for that I'm goin' to provide your squad with a little music. Might as well do this in style, eh? Wait a minute." And it wasn't long before I was back from another dash into the park towin' half a drum corps that I'd borrowed from some Junior Naval Reserves that was drillin' over on the ballfield. So it was some nifty little parade that I finally lines up to lead down Fifth Avenue. First there's me, then the drum corps, then the sergeant and his men rollin' them spools of wire. We strings out for more'n a block. You'd think New Yorkers were so used to parades by this time that you couldn't get 'em stretchin' their necks for anything less'n a regiment of hand-picked heroes. They've seen the French Blue Devils at close range, gawped at the Belgians, and chummed with the Anzacs. But, say, this spool-pushin' stunt was a new one on 'em. Folks just lined the curb and stared. Then some bird starts to cheer and it's taken up all down the line, just on faith. "Hey, pipe the new rollin' tanks!" shouts someone. "Gwan!" sings out another wise guy. "Them's wooden bombs they're goin' to drop on Willie." It's the first time I've been counted in on any of this hooray stuff, and I can't say I hated it. At the same time I tried not to look too chesty. But when I wheeled the procession into the side street and got 'em bunched two deep in front of the Plutoria's carriage entrance I ain't sure but what I was wearin' kind of a satisfied grin. Not for long, though. The six-foot taxi starter in the rear admiral's uniform jumps right in with the prompt protest. He wants to know what the blinkety-blink I think I'm doin', blockin' up his right of way in that fashion. "You can't do it! Take 'em away!" says he. "Ah, keep the lid on, old Goulash," says I. "Sergeant, if he gets messy, roll one of those spools on him. I'll be back shortly." With that I blows into the Plutoria and hunts up the tea room. The major's there, all right, and Mr. Ellins, also a couple of ladies. They're just bein' served with Oolong and caviar sandwiches. "Ah!" says the major, as he spots me. "Our gallant young office lieutenant, eh? Well, sir, anything to report?" "The spools are outside, sir," says I. "Wh--a--at!" he gasps. "Where'll you have 'em put, sir?" says I. About then, though, in trails the taxi starter, the manager and a brace of house detectives. "That's him!" says the starter, pointin' me out. "He's the one that's blockin' traffic." I will say this for the major, though, he's a good sport. He comes right to the front and takes all the blame. "I'm responsible," he tells the manager. "It's perfectly all right, too. Military necessity, sir. Well, perhaps you don't like it, but I'll have you understand, sir, I could block off your whole street if I wished. So clear out, all of you." "Why, Horace!" puts in one of the ladies, grabbin' him by the arm. "Yes, yes, my dear," says the major. "I know. No scene. Certainly not. Only these hotel persons must be put in their place. And if you will excuse me for a moment I'll see what can be done. Come, lieutenant. I want to get a look at those spools myself." Well, he did. "But--but I understood," says he, "that they were stuck in concrete or something of the kind." "Yes, sir," says I. "We had to unstick 'em. Pneumatic drills and a steam roller. Very simple." "Great Scott!" says he. "Why didn't that fool captain think of---- But, see here, I don't want 'em here. Now, if we could only get them to Pier 14----" "That would be a long way to roll 'em, sir," says I, "but it could be done. Loadin' 'em on a couple of army trucks would be easier, though. There's a Quartermaster's depot at the foot of Fifty-seventh Street, you know." "So there is," says he. "I'll call them up. Come in, will you,
as if preparing to enter the chamber of someone in a desperate sickness to whom had come a blessed respite of sleep. Then she stood, her lips apart, her breath suspended, lifting her freed foot with a joyous relief in its lightness. Mackenzie remained on his knees at her feet, looking up strangely into her face. Suddenly she bent over him, clasped his forehead between her hands, kissed his brow as if he were her son. A great hot tear splashed down upon his cheek as she rose again, a sob in her throat that ended in a little, moaning cry. She tossed her long arms like an eagle set free from a cramping cage, her head thrown back, her streaming hair far down her shoulders. There was an appealing grace in her tall, spare body, a strange, awakening beauty in her haggard face. "God sent you," she said. "May He keep His hand over you wherever you go." Mackenzie got to his feet; she picked up the ax and leaned it against the table close to her hand. "I will give you eggs, you can cook them at a fire," she said, "and bread I will give you, but butter I cannot give. That I have not tasted since I came to this land, four years ago, a bride." She moved about to get the food, walking with awkwardness on the foot that had dragged the chain so long, laughing a little at her efforts to regain a normal balance. "Soon it will pass away, and I will walk like a lady, as I once knew how." "But I don't want to cook at a fire," Mackenzie protested; "I want you to make me some coffee and fry me some eggs, and then we'll see about things." She came close to him, her great gray eyes seeming to draw him until he gazed into her soul. "No; you must go," she said. "It will be better when Swan comes that nobody shall be here but me." "But you! Why, you poor thing, he'll put that chain on you again, knock you down, for all I know, and fasten you up like a beast. I'm not going; I'll stay right here till he comes." "No," shaking her head in sad earnestness, "better it will be for all that I shall be here alone when he comes." "Alone!" said he, impatiently; "what can you do alone?" "When he comes," said she, drawing a great breath, shaking her hair back from her face, her deep grave eyes holding him again in their earnest appeal, "then I will stand by the door and kill him with the ax!" CHAPTER II SWAN CARLSON Mackenzie found it hard to bend the woman from this plan of summary vengeance. She had suffered and brooded in her loneliness so long, the cruel hand of Swan Carlson over her, that her thoughts had beaten a path to this desire. This self-administration of justice seemed now her life's sole aim. She approached it with glowing eyes and flushed cheeks; she had lived for that hour. Harshly she met Mackenzie's efforts at first to dissuade her from this long-planned deed, yielding a little at length, not quite promising to withhold her hand when the step of her savage husband should sound outside the door. "If you are here when he comes, then it will do for another night; if you are gone, then I will not say." That was the compromise she made with him at last, turning with no more argument to prepare his supper, carrying the ax with her as she went about the work. Often she stood in rigid concentration, listening for the sound of Swan's coming, such animation in her eyes as a bride's might show in a happier hour than hers. She sat opposite her visitor as he made his supper on the simple food she gave him, and told him the story of her adventure into that heartless land, the ax-handle against her knee. A minister's daughter, educated to fit herself for a minister's wife. She had learned English in the schools of her native land, as the custom is, and could speak it fairly when family reverses carried her like a far-blown seed to America. She had no business training, for what should a minister's wife know of business beyond the affairs of the parish and the economy of her own home? She found, therefore, nothing open to her hands in America save menial work in the households of others. Not being bred to it, nor the intention or thought of it as a future contingency, she suffered in humbling herself to the services of people who were at once her intellectual and social inferiors. The one advantage in it was the improvement of her English speech, through which she hoped for better things in time. It was while she was still new to America, its customs and social adjustments, and the shame of her menial situation burned in her soul like a corrosive acid, that she saw the advertisement of Swan Carlson in a Swedish newspaper. Swan Carlson was advertising for a wife. Beneath a handsome picture of himself he stated his desires, frankly, with evident honesty in all his representations. He told of his holdings in sheep and land, of his money in the bank. A dream of new consequence in this strange land came to Hertha Jacobsen as she read the advertisement, as she studied the features of Swan Carlson, his bold face looking at her from the page. She had seen men, and the women of such men sharing their honors, who had risen from peasants to governors and senators, to positions of wealth and consequence in this strange land with all the romance of a tale out of a book. Perhaps fate had urged her on to this unfriendly shore only to feed her on the bitter herbs for her purification for a better life. The minister of her church investigated Swan Carlson and his claims, finding him all that he professed to be. Hertha wrote to him; in time Swan came to visit her, a tall, long-striding man, handsomer than his picture in the paper, handsome as a Viking lord with his proud foot on the neck of a fallen foe. So she married him, and came away with him to the sheeplands, and Swan's hand was as tender of her as a summer wind. It was shearing time when they reached home; Swan was with her every day for a little while, gathering his flocks from the range into the shearing sheds. He was master of more than fifteen thousand sheep. When the shearing was done, and Swan had gone with his wagons to ship the clip, returning with his bankbook showing thousands in added wealth, a change came into her life, so radiant with the blossoms of a new happiness. Swan's big laugh was not so ready in his throat any more; his great hand seemed forgetful of its caress. He told her that the time of idling now was over; she must go with him in a sheep-wagon to the range and care for her band of sheep, sharing the labors of his life as she shared its rewards. No; that was not to her liking. The wife of a rich man should not live as a peasant woman, dew in her draggled skirts to her knees, the sun browning her skin and bleaching her hair. It was not for his woman to give him _no_, said Swan. Be ready at a certain hour in the morning; they must make an early start, for the way was long. But no; she refused to take the burden of a peasant woman on her back. That was the first time Swan knocked her senseless. When she recovered, the sheep-wagon was rocking her in its uneasy journey to the distant range. Swan's cruelties multiplied with his impatience at her slowness to master the shepherd's art. The dogs were sullen creatures, unused to a woman's voice, unfriendly to a woman's presence. Swan insisted that she lay aside her woman's attire and dress as a man to gain the good-will of the dogs. Again she defied his authority, all her refinement rising against the degradation of her sex; again Swan laid her senseless with a blow. When she woke her limbs were clad in overalls, a greasy jumper was buttoned over her breast. But the dogs were wiser than their master; no disguise of man's could cover her from the contempt of their shrewd senses. They would not obey her shrilled commands. Very well, said Swan; if she did not have it in her to win even the respect of a dog, let her do a dog's work. So he took the collies away, leaving her to range her band of sheep in terrible labor, mind-wrenching loneliness, over the sage-gray hills. Wolves grew bold; the lambs suffered. When Swan came again to number her flock, he cursed her for her carelessness, giving her blows which were kinder than his words. With the first snow she abandoned her flock and fled. Disgraceful as it was for a woman to leave her man, the frenzy of loneliness drove her on. With his companionship she could have endured Swan's cruelty, but alone her heart was dead. Three days she wandered. Swan found her after she had fallen in the snow. His great laugh woke her, and she was home in this house, the light of day in her eyes. Swan was sitting beside her, merry in the thought of how he had cheated her out of her intention to die like an old ewe among the mountain drifts. She was good for nothing, he said, but to sit at home like a cat. But he would make sure that she sat at home, to be there at his coming, and not running away from the bounty of a man who had taken a beggar to his bosom. Then he brought the chain and the anvil, and welded the red-hot iron upon her limb. He laughed when the smoke of her burning flesh rose hissing; laughed when he mounted his horse and rode away, leaving her in agony too great to let her die. This summer now beginning was the fourth since that melancholy day. In the time that had passed, Swan had come into the ways of trouble, suffering a great drain upon his hoarded money, growing as a consequence sullen and somber in his moods. No more he laughed; even the distress of his chained wife, the sight of her wasting face and body, the pleading of her tortured eyes, could not move his loud gales of merriment again. Swan had killed two of his sheepherders, as she had mentioned before. It grew out of a dispute over wages, in which the men were right. That was the winter following her attempt to run away, Swan being alone with them upon the stormy range. He declared both of them set upon him at once like wolves, and that he fought only to defend his life. He strangled them, the throat of each grasped in his broad, thick hand, and held them from him so, stiff arms against their desperate struggles, until they sank down in the snow and died. Only a little while ago the lawyers had got him off from the charge of murder, after long delays. The case had been tried in another county, for Swan Carlson's neighbors all believed him guilty of a horrible crime; no man among them could have listened to his story under oath with unprejudiced ear. The lawyers had brought Swan off, for at the end it had been his living word against the mute accusations of two dead men. There was nobody to speak for the herders; so the lawyers had set him free. But it had cost him thousands of dollars, and Swan's evil humor had deepened with the drain. Crazy, he said of his wife; a poor mad thing bent on self-destruction in wild and mournful ways. In that Swan was believed, at least. Nobody came to inquire of her, none ever stopped to speak a word. The nearest neighbor was twelve or fifteen miles distant, a morose man with sour face, master of a sea of sheep. All of this Swan himself had told her in the days when he laughed. He told her also of the lawyers' drain upon his wealth, starving her days together to make a pebble of saving to fill the ruthless breach. "Tonight Swan will come," she said. "After what I have told you, are you not afraid?" "I suppose I ought to be," Mackenzie returned, leaving her to form her own conclusion. She searched his face with steady eyes, her hand on the ax-helve, in earnest effort to read his heart. "No, you are not afraid," she said. "But wait; when you hear him speak, then you will be afraid." "How do you know he is coming home tonight?" She did not speak at once. Her eyes were fixed on the open door at Mackenzie's side, her face was set in the tensity of her mental concentration as she listened. Mackenzie bent all his faculties to hear if any foot approached. There was no sound. "The fishermen of my country can feel the chill of an iceberg through the fog and the night," she said at last. "Swan Carlson is an iceberg to my heart." She listened again, bending forward, her lips open. Mackenzie fancied he heard the swing of a galloping hoof-beat, and turned toward the door. "Have you a pistol?" she inquired. "No." "He is coming; in a little while he will be at the door. There is time yet for you to leave." "I want to have a word with your man; I'll wait." Mrs. Carlson got up, keeping the ax in hand, moved her chair to the other side of the door, where she stationed herself in such position as Swan must see her first when he looked within. She disposed the ax to conceal it entirely beneath her long apron, her hand under the garment grasping the helve. "For your own sake, not his, I ask you not to strike him," Mackenzie pleaded, in all the earnestness he could command. "I have given you the hour of my vengeance," she replied. "But if he curses me, if he lifts his hand!" Mackenzie was more than a little uneasy on the probable outcome of his meeting with the tempestuous Swan. He got out his pipe and lit it, considering the situation with fast-running thoughts. Still, a man could not go on and leave that beaten, enslaved woman to the mercies of her tyrant; Swan Carlson must be given to understand that he would be held to answer to the law for his future behavior toward her. "If I were you I'd put the ax behind the door and get his supper ready," said he. Mrs. Carlson got up at the suggestion, with such readiness that surprised Mackenzie, put the ax back of the open door, stood a moment winding up her fallen hair. "Yes, he is my man," she said. Swan was turning his horse into the barn; Mackenzie could hear him talking to the animal, not unkindly. Mrs. Carlson put fresh fuel in the stove, making a rattling of the lids which must have sounded cheerful to the ears of a hungry man. As she began breaking eggs into a bowl she took up her song again, with an unconscious air of detachment from it, as one unwittingly follows the habit that has been for years the accompaniment to a task. As before, the refinement of accent was wanting in her words, but the sweet melancholy of her voice thrilled her listener like the rich notes of an ancient violin. _Na-a-fer a-lo-o-one, na-a-fer a-lone, He promise na-fer to leafe me, Na-fer to leafe me a-lone!_ Mackenzie sat with his elbow on the table, his chair partly turned toward the door, just within the threshold and a little to one side, where the flockmaster would see him the moment he stepped into the light. The traveler's pack lay on the floor at the door jamb; the smoke from his pipe drifted out to tell of his presence in the honest announcement of a man who had nothing to hide. So Swan Carlson found him as he came home to his door. Swan stopped, one foot in the door, the light on his face. Mrs. Carlson did not turn from the stove to greet him by word or look, but stood bending a little over the pan of sputtering eggs, which she shook gently from side to side with a rhythmic, slow movement in cadence with her song. Swan turned his eyes from one to the other, his face clouding for a moment as for a burst of storm, clearing again at once as Mackenzie rose and gave him good evening in cheerful and unshaken voice. Mrs. Carlson had spoken a true word when she described Swan as a handsome man. Almost seven feet tall, Mackenzie took him to be, so tall that he must stoop to enter the door; lithe and sinewy of limbs, a lightness in them as of an athlete bred; broad in the shoulders, long of arms. His face was stern, his red hair long about the ears, his Viking mustache long-drooping at the corners of his mouth. "I thought a man was here, or my woman had begun to smoke," said Swan, coming in, flinging his hat down on the floor. "What do you want, loafin' around here?" Mackenzie explained his business in that country in direct words, and his presence in the house in the same breath. Mollified, Swan grunted that he understood and accepted the explanation, turning up his sleeves, unfastening the collar of his flannel shirt, to wash. His woman stood at the stove, her song dead on her lips, sliding the eggs from the pan onto a platter in one piece. Swan gave her no heed, not even a curious or questioning look, but as he crossed the room to the wash bench he saw the broken chain lying free upon the floor. A breath he paused over it, his eyes fastened on it in a glowering stare. Mackenzie braced himself for the storm of wrath which seemed bursting the doors of Swan Carlson's gloomy heart. But Swan did not speak. He picked up the chain, examined the cut link, threw it down with a clatter. At the sound of its fall Mackenzie saw Mrs. Carlson start. She turned her head, terror in her eyes, her face blanched. Swan bent over the basin, snorting water like a strangling horse. There were eight eggs on the platter that Swan Carlson's woman put before him when he sat down to his supper. One end of the great trencher was heaped with brown bacon; a stack of bread stood at Swan's left hand, a cup of coffee at his right. Before this provender the flockmaster squared himself, the unwelcome guest across the table from him, the smoke of his pipe drifting languidly out into the tranquil summer night. Swan had said no word since his first inquiry. Mackenzie had ventured nothing more. Mrs. Carlson sat down in the chair that she had placed near the door before Swan's arrival, only that she moved it a little to bring her hand within reach of the hidden ax. Swan had brushed his long, dark-red hair back from his broad, deep forehead, bringing it down across the tips of his ears in a savage fashion admirably suited to his grave, harsh, handsome face. He devoured his food noisily, bending low over his plate. "You want to learn the sheep business, huh?" said he, throwing up his eyes in quick challenge, pausing a moment in his champing and clatter. Mackenzie nodded, pipe raised toward his lips. "Well, you come to the right country. You ever had any work around a ranch?" "No." "No, I didn't think you had; you look too soft. How much can you lift?" "What's that got to do with sheep?" Mackenzie inquired, frowning in his habitual manner of showing displeasure with frivolous and trifling things. "I can shoulder a steel rail off of the railroad that weighs seven hundred and fifty pounds," said Swan. "You couldn't lift one end." "Maybe I couldn't," Mackenzie allowed, pretending to gaze out after his drifting smoke, but watching the sheepman, as he mopped the last of the eggs up with a piece of bread, with a furtive turning of his eye. He was considering how to approach the matter which he had remained there to take up with this great, boasting, savage man, and how he could make him understand that it was any of society's business whether he chained his wife or let her go free, fed her or starved her, caressed her, or knocked her down. Swan pushed back from the table, wringing the coffee from his mustache. "Did you cut that chain?" he asked. "Yes, I cut it. You've got no right to keep your wife, or anybody else, chained up. You could be put in jail for it; it's against the law." "A man's got a right to do what he pleases with his own woman; she's his property, the same as a horse." "Not exactly the same as a horse, either. But you could be put in jail for beating your horse. I've waited here to tell you about this, in a friendly way, and warn you to treat this woman right. Maybe you didn't know you were breaking the law, but I'm telling you it's so." Swan stood, his head within six inches of the ceiling. His wife must have read an intention of violence in his face, although Mackenzie could mark no change in his features, always as immobile as bronze. She sprang to her feet, her bosom agitated, arms lifted, shoulders raised, as if to shrink from the force of a blow. She made no effort to reach the ax behind the door; the thought of it had gone, apparently, out of her mind. Swan stood within four feet of her, but he gave her no attention. "When a man comes to my house and monkeys with my woman, him and me we've got to have a fight," he said. CHAPTER III THE FIGHT Mackenzie got up, keeping the table between them. He looked at the door, calculating whether he could make a spring for the ax before Carlson could grapple him. Carlson read in the glance an intention to retreat, made a quick stride to the door, closed it sharply, locked it, put the key in his pocket. He stood a moment looking Mackenzie over, as if surprised by the length he unfolded when on his feet, but with no change of anger or resentment in his stony face. "You didn't need to lock the door, Carlson; I wasn't going to run away--I didn't wait here to see you for that." Mackenzie stood in careless, lounging pose, hand on the back of his chair, pipe between his fingers, a rather humorous look in his eyes as he measured Carlson up and down. "Come out here in the middle and fight me if you ain't afraid!" Swan challenged, derision in his voice. "I'll fight you, all right, after I tell you what I waited here to say. You're a coward, Swan Carlson, you're a sheepman with a sheep's heart. I turned your woman loose, and you're going to let her stay loose. Let that sink into your head." Carlson was standing a few feet in front of Mackenzie, leaning forward, his shoulders swelling and falling as if he flexed his muscles for a spring. His arms he held swinging in front of him full length, like a runner waiting for the start, in a posture at once unpromising and uncouth. Behind him his wife shuddered against the wall. "Swan, Swan! O-o-oh, Swan, Swan!" she said, crying it softly as if she chided him for a great hurt. Swan turned partly toward her, striking backward with his open hand. His great knuckles struck her across the eyes, a cruel, heavy blow that would have felled a man. She staggered back a pace, then sank limply forward on her knees, her hands outreaching on the floor, her hair falling wildly, her posture that of a suppliant at a barbarian conqueror's feet. Mackenzie snatched the heavy platter from the table and brought Carlson a smashing blow across the head. Carlson stood weaving on his legs a moment as the fragments of the dish clattered around him, swaying like a tree that waits the last blow of the ax to determine which way it will fall. Mackenzie threw the fragment that remained in his hand into Carlson's face, laying open a long gash in his cheek. As the hot blood gushed down over his jaw Carlson steadied himself on his swaying legs and laughed. Mrs. Carlson lifted her face out of the shadows of the floor at the sound. Mackenzie glanced at her, the red mark of Swan's harsh blow across her brows, as he flew at Swan like a desert whirlwind, landing heavily on his great neck before he could lift a guard. The blow staggered Carlson over upon his wife, and together they collapsed against the wall, where Carlson stood a breath, his hand thrown out to save him from a fall. Then he shook his haughty, handsome, barbarian head, and laughed again, a loud laugh, deep and strong. There was no note of merriment in that sound, no inflection of satisfaction or joy. It came out of his wide-extended jaws with a roar, no facial softening with it, no blending of the features in the transformation of a smile. Mrs. Carlson struggled to her knees at the sound of it, lifting her moaning cry again at the sight of his gushing blood. Swan charged his adversary with bent head, the floor trembling under his heavy feet, his great hands lifted to seize and crush. Mackenzie backed away, upsetting the table between them, barring for a moment Swan's mad onrush. In the anger-blind movements of the man he could read his intention, which was not to strike foot to foot, knee to knee, but to grapple and smother, as he had smothered the sheepherders in the snow. Across the overturned table Mackenzie landed another blow, sprang around the barrier out of the pocket of corner into which Carlson was bent on forcing him, hoping by nimble foot work to play on the flockmaster for a knockout. Swan threw a chair as Mackenzie circled out of his reach with nimble feet, knocking down the stovepipe, dislodging a shower of tinware from the shelves behind. Carlson had him by the shoulder now, but a deft turn, a sharp blow, and Mackenzie was free, racing over the cluttered floor in wild uproar, bending, side-stepping, in a strained and terrific race. Carlson picked up the table, swung it overhead until it struck the ceiling, threw it with all his mighty strength to crush the man who had evaded him with such clever speed. A leg caught Mackenzie a glancing blow on the head, dazing him momentarily, giving Carlson the opening he desired. In the next breath Mackenzie was down, Carlson's hand at his throat. Mackenzie could see Swan's face as he bent over him, the lantern light on it fairly. There was no light of exultation in it as his great hand closed slowly upon Mackenzie's throat, no change from its stony harshness save for the dark gash and the flood of blood that ran down his jaw and neck. Mackenzie writhed and struggled, groping on the floor for something to strike Carlson with and break his garroting grip. The blood was singing in his ears, the breath was cut from his lungs; his eyes flashed a thousand scintillating sparks and grew dark. His hand struck something in the debris on the floor, the handle of a table knife it seemed, and with the contact a desperate accession of life heaved in him like a final wave. He struck, and struck at Swan Carlson's arm, and struck again at his wrist as he felt the tightening band of his fingers relax, heard him curse and growl. A quick turn and he was free, with a glimpse as he rolled over at Swan Carlson pulling a table fork out of his hairy wrist. Mackenzie felt blood in his mouth; his ears were muffled as if he were under water, but he came to his feet with a leg of the broken table in his hand. Swan threw the fork at him as he rose from his knees; it struck the lantern, breaking the globe, cutting off more than half the dim light in which the undetermined battle had begun. Over against the door Mrs. Carlson stood with the ax in her hands, holding it uplifted, partly drawn back, as if she had checked it in an intended blow. Swan tore a broad plank from the table top, split it over his knee to make it better fit his hand, and came on to the attack, bending in his slouching, bearish attitude of defiant strength. Mackenzie gave way before him, watching his moment to strike the decisive blow. This maneuver brought Mackenzie near the door, where the wild-eyed woman stood, an ally and a reserve, ready to help him in the moment of his extremity. He believed she had been on the point of striking Swan the moment his fingers closed in their convulsive pang of death over the handle of the fork. Swan followed, warily now, conscious of this man's unexpected strength and agility, and of his resources in a moment of desperation, making feints with his board as a batter does before the ball is thrown. Mackenzie passed Mrs. Carlson, backing away from Swan, sparring for time to recover his wind and faculties after his swift excursion to the borderland of death. He parried a swift blow, giving one in return that caught Swan on the elbow and knocked the plank out of his hand. Mackenzie sprang forward to follow up his advantage with a decisive stroke, when, to his amazement, Mrs. Carlson threw herself between them, the ax uplifted in her husband's defense. "No, no!" she screamed; "he is my man!" Swan Carlson laughed again, and patted her shoulder, stooping to recover his board. But he flung it down again, taking the ax in its place, pushing his woman, not without some tenderness in his hand, back into the corner, throwing himself in front of her, his wild laugh ringing in the murky room, stifling from the smoke of lantern and stove. Mackenzie felt his hope break like a rope of straw at this unexpected turn of the woman. With those two mad creatures--for mad he believed the isolation and cruelty suffered by the one, the trouble and terror of the law by the other, had driven them--leagued against him it seemed that he must put down all hope of ever looking again upon the day. If there was any chance for him at all, it lay in darkness. With this thought Mackenzie made a quick dash past Carlson, smashing the lantern with a blow. There was one window in the room, a small, single-sash opening near the stove. Even this was not apparent for a little while following the plunge into the dark; Mackenzie stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust themselves to the gloom. No sound but Carlson's breathing came from the other side of the kitchen. The square of window appeared dimly now, a little to Mackenzie's left. He moved cautiously away from it, yet not without noise for all his care. Swan let drive with his board at the sound of movement. His aim was good; it struck Mackenzie's shoulder, but fortunately with its flat surface, doing no hurt. Mackenzie threw himself down heavily, getting cautiously to his feet again instantly, hoping to draw Carlson over in the belief that he had put him out of the fight. But Carlson was not so rash. He struck a match, holding it up, peering under it, blinking in the sudden light. Mackenzie was not more than eight feet away. He closed the distance in a bound, swung the heavy oak table leg, and stretched Carlson on the floor. Mrs. Carlson began wailing and moaning, bending over her fallen tyrant, as Mackenzie could gather from her voice. "You've killed him," she said; "you've killed my man!" "No, but I will kill him if you don't open the door!" Mackenzie stood by Carlson as he spoke, feeling his body with his foot. He bent over Carlson, exploring for his heart, fearing that he had killed him, indeed. His first efforts to locate a pulse were not assuring, but a feeble throbbing at last announced that the great ruffian's admirable machinery was stunned, not broken. "Open the door; he'll be all right in a little while," Mackenzie said. Mrs. Carlson was moaning in a sorrow as genuine as if the fallen man had been the kindest husband that fate could have sent her, and not the heartless beast that he was. She found the key and threw the door open, letting in a cool, sweet breath of the night. Under it Carlson would soon revive, Mackenzie believed. He had no desire to linger and witness the restoration. Mackenzie had a bruised and heavy feeling about him as he shouldered his pack and hurried from that inhospitable door. He knew that Swan Carlson was not dead, and would not die from that blow. Why the feeling persisted as he struck off up the creek through the dew-wet grass he could not tell, but it was strong upon him that Swan Carlson would come into his way again, to make trouble for him on a future day. CHAPTER IV KEEPER OF THE FLOCK John Mackenzie, late schoolmaster of Jasper, marched on through the cool of the night, regretting that he had meddled in the domestic arrangements of Swan Carlson, the Swede. The outcome of his attempted kindness to the oppressed woman had not been felicitous. Indeed, he was troubled greatly by the fear that he had killed Swan Carlson, and that grave consequences might rise out of this first adventure that ever fell in his way. Perhaps adventure was not such a thing to be sought as he had imagined, he reflected; hand to his swollen throat. There was an ache in his crushed windpipe, a dryness in his mouth, a taste of blood on his tongue. That had been a close go for him, there on the floor under Swan Carlson's great knee; a few seconds longer, and his first adventure would have been his last. Yet there was a vast satisfaction in knowing what was in him. Here he had stood foot to foot with the strong man of the sheeplands, the strangler, the fierce, half-insane terror of peaceful men, and had come off the victor. He had fought this man in his own house, where a man will fight valiantly, even though a coward on the road, and had left him senseless on the floor. It was something for a schoolteacher, counted a mild and childlike man. It had been many a year since Mackenzie had mixed in a fight, and the best that had gone before was nothing more than a harmless spat compared to this. The marvel of it was how he had developed this quality of defense in inactivity. There must have been some psychological undercurrent carrying strength and skill to him through all the years of his romantic imaginings; the spirits of old heroes of that land must have lent him their counsel and might in that desperate battle with the Norse flockmaster. Adventure was not dead out of the land, it seemed, although this was a rather sordid and ignoble brand. It had descended to base levels among base men who lived with sheep and thought only of sheep-riches. Violence among such men as Swan Carlson was merely violence, with none of the picturesque embellishments of the olden days when men slung pistols with a challenge and a hail, in those swift battles where skill was all, bestial strength nothing. Mackenzie hoped to find Tim Sullivan different from the general run of sheep-rich men. There must be some of the spice of romance in a man who had the wide reputation of Tim Sullivan, and who was the hero of so many tales of success. It was Mackenzie's hope that this encounter with the wild sheepman might turn out to his profit with Tim Sullivan. He always had believed that he should win fortune fighting if it ever fell to his portion at all. This brush with Swan Carlson confirmed his old belief. If there was any good luck for him in the sheep country, it would come to him through a fight, Mackenzie considered
1651, which first gave Mr. Waters the clue to his discovery. Robert not only accepted his brother's draft, but wrote him this simple and business-like but truly affectionate epistle in return: "GOOD BROTHER: Remember my love to my sister, my brother John and sister, my brother Davenport and sister and the rest of our friends. "In haste I rest "Your loving brother, "From Bray this 1 April, 1653. "ROBERT HATHORNE." From this it appears that Major William Hathorne not only had a brother John, who established himself in Lynn, but a sister Elizabeth, who married Richard Davenport, of Salem. Concerning Robert Hathorne we only know further that he died in 1689; but in the probate records of Berkshire, England, there is a will proved May 2, 1651, of William Hathorne, of Binfield, who left all his lands, buildings and tenements in that county to his son Robert, on condition that Robert should pay to his father's eldest son, William, one hundred pounds, and to his son John twenty pounds sterling. He also left to another son, Edmund, thirty acres of land in Bray, and there are other legacies; but it cannot be doubted that the hundred pounds mentioned in this will is the same that Major William Hathorne drew for five months later, and that we have identified here the last English ancestor of Nathaniel Hawthorne. His wife's given name was Sarah, but her maiden name still remains unknown. The family resided chiefly at Binfield, on the borders of Windsor Park, and evidently were in comfortable circumstances at that time. From William Hathorne, senior, their genealogy has been traced back to John Hathorne (spelled at that time Hothorne), who died in 1520, but little is known of their affairs, or how they sustained themselves during the strenuous vicissitudes of the Reformation. [Footnote: "Hawthorne Centenary at Salem," 81.] Emmerton and Waters [Footnote: "English Records about New England Families."] state that William Hathorne came to Massachusetts Bay in 1630, and this is probable enough, though by no means certain, for they give no authority for it. We first hear of him definitely as a freeholder in the settlement of Dorchester in 1634, but his name is not on the list of the first twenty-four Dorchester citizens, dated October 19, 1630. All accounts agree that he moved to Salem in 1636, or the year following, and Nathaniel Hawthorne believed that he came to America at that time. Upham, the historian of Salem witchcraft, who has made the most thorough researches in the archives of old Salem families, says of William Hathorne: "William Hathorne appears on the church records as early as 1636. He died in June, 1681, seventy-four years of age. No one in our annals fills a larger space. As soldier, commanding important and difficult expeditions, as counsel in cases before the courts, as judge on the bench, and innumerable other positions requiring talent and intelligence, he was constantly called to serve the public. He was distinguished as a public speaker, and is the only person, I believe, of that period, whose reputation as an orator has come down to us. He was an Assistant, that is, in the upper branch of the Legislature, seventeen years. He was a deputy twenty years. When the deputies, who before sat with the assistants, were separated into a distinct body, and the House of Representatives thus came into existence, in 1644, Hathorne was their first Speaker. He occupied the chair, with intermediate services on the floor from time to time, until raised to the other House. He was an inhabitant of Salem Village, having his farm there, and a dwelling-house, in which he resided when his legislative, military, and other official duties permitted. His son John, who succeeded him in all his public honors, also lived on his own farm in the village a great part of the time." [Footnote: "Salem Witchcraft," i. 99.] Evidently he was the most important person in the colony, next to Governor Winthrop, and unequalled by any of his descendants, except Nathaniel Hawthorne, and by him in a wholly different manner; for it is in vain that we seek for traits similar to those of the great romance writer among his ancestors. We can only say that they both possessed exceptional mental ability, and there the comparison ends. The attempt has been made to connect William Hathorne with the persecution of the Quakers, [Footnote: Conway's "Life of Hawthorne," 15.] and it is true that he was a member of the Colonial Assembly during the period of the persecution; it is likely that his vote supported the measures in favor of it, but this is not absolutely certain. We do not learn that he acted at any time in the capacity of sheriff; the most diligent researches in the archives of the State House at Boston have failed to discover any direct connection on the part of William Hathorne with that movement; and the best authorities in regard to the events of that time make no mention of him. [Footnote: Sewel, Hallowell, Ellis.] It was the clergy who aroused public opinion and instigated the prosecutions against both the Quakers and the supposed witches of Salem, and the civil authorities were little more than passive instruments in their hands. Hathorne's work was essentially a legislative one,--a highly important work in that wild, unsettled country,--to adapt English statutes and legal procedures to new and strange conditions. He was twice Speaker of the House between 1660 and 1671, and as presiding officer he could exert less influence on measures of expediency than any other person present, as he could not argue either for or against them. And yet, after Charles II. had interfered in behalf of the Quakers, William Hathorne wrote an elaborate and rather circuitous letter to the British Ministry, arguing for non-intervention in the affairs of the colony, which might have possessed greater efficacy if he had not signed it with an assumed name. [Footnote: J. Hawthorne's "Nathaniel Hawthorne," i. 24.] However strong a Puritan he may have been, William Hathorne evidently had no intention of becoming a martyr to the cause of colonial independence. Yet it may be stated in his favor, and in that of the colonists generally, that the fault was not wholly on one side, for the Quakers evidently sought persecution, and would have it, cost what it might. [Footnote: Hallowell's "Quaker Invasion of New England."] Much the same may be affirmed of his son John, who had the singular misfortune to be judge in Salem at the time of the witchcraft epidemic. The belief in witchcraft has always had its stronghold among the fogs and gloomy fiords of the North. James I. brought it with him from Scotland to England, and in due course it was transplanted to America. Judge Hathorne appears to have been at the top of affairs at Salem in his time, and it is more than probable that another in his place would have found himself obliged to act as he did. Law is, after all, in exceptional cases little more than a reflex of public opinion. "The common law," said Webster, "is common-sense," which simply means the common opinion of the most influential people. Much more to blame than John Hathorne were those infatuated persons who deceived themselves into thinking that the pains of rheumatism, neuralgia, or some similar malady were caused by the malevolent influence of a neighbor against whom they had perhaps long harbored a grudge. _They_ were the true witches and goblins of that epoch, and the only ones, if any, who ought to have been hanged for it. What never has been reasoned up cannot be reasoned down. It seems incredible in this enlightened era, as the newspapers call it, that any woman should be at once so inhuman and so frivolous as to swear away the life of a fellow-creature upon an idle fancy; and yet, even in regard to this, there were slightly mitigating conditions. Consider only the position of that handful of Europeans in this vast wilderness, as it then was. The forests came down to the sea-shore, and brought with them all the weird fancies, terrors and awful forebodings which the human mind could conjure up. They feared the Indians, the wild beasts, and most of all one another, for society was not yet sufficiently organized to afford that repose and contentment of spirit which they had left behind in the Old World. They had come to America to escape despotism, but they had brought despotism in their own hearts. They could escape from the Stuarts, but there was no escape from human nature. It is likely that their immediate progenitors would not have carried the witchcraft craze to such an extreme. The emigrating Puritans were a fairly well-educated class of men and women, but their children did not enjoy equal opportunities. The new continent had to be subdued physically and reorganized before any mental growth could be raised there. Levelling the forest was a small matter beside clearing the land of stumps and stones. All hands were obliged to work hard, and there was little opportunity for intellectual development or social culture. As a logical consequence, an era ensued not unlike the dark ages of Europe. But this was essential to the evolution of a new type of man, and for the foundation of American nationality; and it was thus that the various nationalities of Europe arose out of the ruins of the Roman Empire. The scenes that took place in Judge Hathorne's court-room have never been equalled since in American jurisprudence. Powerful forces came into play there, and the reports that have been preserved read like scenes from Shakespeare. In the case of Rebecca Nurse, the Judge said to the defendant: "'You do know whether you are guilty, and have familiarity with the Devil; and now when you are here present to see such a thing as these testify,--and a black man whispering in your ear, and devils about you,--what do you say to it?'" To which she replied: "'It is all false. I am clear.' Whereupon Mrs. Pope, one of the witnesses, fell into a grievous fit." [Footnote: Upham's "Salem Witchcraft," ii. 64.] Alas, poor beleaguered soul! And one may well say, "What imaginations those women had!" Tituba, the West Indian Aztec who appears in this social-religious explosion as the chief and original incendiary,--verily the root of all evil,--gave the following testimony: "Q. 'Did you not pinch Elizabeth Hubbard this morning?' "A. 'The man brought her to me, and made me pinch her.' "Q. 'Why did you go to Thomas Putnam's last night and hurt his child?' "A. 'They pull and haul me, and make me go.' "Q. 'And what would they have you do?' "A. 'Kill her with a knife.' "(Lieutenant Fuller and others said at this time, when the child saw these persons, and was tormented by them, that she did complain of a knife,--that they would have her cut her head off with a knife.) "Q. 'How did you go?' "A. 'We ride upon sticks, and are there presently.' "Q. 'Do you go through the trees or over them?' "A. 'We see nothing, but are there presently.' "Q. 'Why did you not tell your master?' "A. 'I was afraid. They said they would cut off my head if I told.' "Q. 'Would you not have hurt others, if you could?' "A. 'They said they would hurt others, but they could not.' "Q. 'What attendants hath Sarah Good?' "A. 'A yellow-bird, and she would have given me one.' "Q. 'What meat did she give it?' "A. 'It did suck her between her fingers.'". This might serve as an epilogue to "Macbeth," and the wonder is that an unlettered Indian should have had the wit to make such apt and subtle replies. It is also noteworthy that these strange proceedings took place after the expulsion of the royal governor, and previous to the provincial government of William III. If Sir Edmund Andros had remained, the tragedy might have been changed into a farce. After all, it appears that John Hathorne was not a lawyer, for he describes himself in his last will, dated June 27, 1717, as a merchant, and it is quite possible that his legal education was no better than that of the average English squire in Fielding's time. It is evident, however, from the testimony given above, that he was a strong believer in the supernatural, and here if anywhere we find a relationship between him and his more celebrated descendant. Nathaniel Hawthorne was too clear-sighted to place confidence in the pretended revelations of trance mediums, and he was not in the least superstitious; but he was remarkably fond of reading ghost stories, and would have liked to believe them, if he could have done so in all sincerity. He sometimes felt as if he were a ghost himself, gliding noiselessly in the walks of men, and wondered that the sun should cast a shadow from him. However, we cannot imagine him as seated in jurisdiction at a criminal tribunal. His gentle nature would have recoiled from that, as it might from a serpent. In the Charter Street burial-ground there is a slate gravestone, artistically carved about its edges, with the name, "Col. John Hathorne Esq.," upon it. It is somewhat sunken into the earth, and leans forward as if wishing to hide the inscription upon it from the gaze of mankind. The grass about it and the moss upon the stone assist in doing this, although repeatedly cut and cleaned away. It seems as if Nature wished to draw a kind of veil over the memory of the witch's judge, himself the sorrowful victim of a theocratic oligarchy. The lesson we learn from his errors is, to trust our own hearts and not to believe too fixedly in the doctrines of Church and State. It must be a dull sensibility that can look on this old slate-stone without a feeling of pathos and a larger charity for the errors of human nature. It is said that one of the convicted witches cursed Judge Hathorne,--himself and his descendants forever; but it is more than likely that they all cursed him bitterly enough, and this curse took effect in a very natural and direct manner. Every extravagant political or social movement is followed by a corresponding reaction, even if the movement be on the whole a salutary one, and retribution is sure to fall in one shape or another on the leaders of it. After this time the Hathornes ceased to be conspicuous in Salem affairs. The family was not in favor, and the avenues of prosperity were closed to them, as commonly happens in such cases. Neither does the family appear to have multiplied and extended itself like most of the old New England families, who can now count from a dozen to twenty branches in various places. Of John Hathorne's three sons only one appears to have left children. The name has wholly disappeared from among Salem families, and thus in a manner has the witch's curse been fulfilled. Joseph Hathorne, the son of the Judge, was mostly a farmer, and that is all that we now know of him. His son Daniel, however, showed a more adventurous spirit, becoming a shipmaster quite early in life. It has also been intimated that he was something of a smuggler, which was no great discredit to him in a time when the unfair and even prohibitory measures of the British Parliament in regard to American commerce made smuggling a practical necessity. Even as the captain of a trading vessel, however, Daniel Hathorne was not likely to advance the social interests of his family. It is significant that he should have left the central portion of Salem, where his ancestors had lived, and have built a house for himself close to the city wharves,--a house well built and commodious enough, but not in a fashionable location. But Daniel Hathorne had the advantage over fashionable society in Salem, in being a thorough patriot. Boston and Salem were the two strongholds of Toryism during the war for Independence, which was natural enough, as their wealthy citizens were in close mercantile relations with English houses, and sent their children to England to be educated. Daniel Hathorne, however, as soon as hostilities had begun, fitted out his bark as a privateer, and spent the following six years in preying upon British merchantmen. How successful he was in this line of business we have not been informed, but he certainly did not grow rich by it; although he is credited with one engagement with the enemy, in which his ship came off with honor, though perhaps not with a decisive victory. This exploit was celebrated in a rude ballad of the time, which has been preserved in "Griswold's Curiosities of American Literature," and has at least the merit of plain unvarnished language. [Footnote: Also in Lathrop's "Hawthorne."] There is a miniature portrait of Daniel Hathorne, such as was common in Copley's time, still in the possession of the Hawthorne family, and it represents him as rather a bullet-headed man, with a bright, open, cheery face, a broad English chin and strongly marked brows,--an excellent physiognomy for a sea-captain. He appears besides to have had light brown or sandy hair, a ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes; but we cannot determine how truthful the miniature may be in respect to coloring. At all events, he was of a very different appearance from Nathaniel Hawthorne, and if he resembled his grandson in any external respect, it was in his large eyes and their overshadowing brows. He has not the look of a dare-devil. One might suppose that he was a person of rather an obstinate disposition, but it is always difficult to draw the line between obstinacy and determination. A similar miniature of his son Nathaniel, born in 1775, and who died at Surinam in his thirty-fourth year, gives us the impression of a person somewhat like his father, and also somewhat like his son Nathaniel. He has a long face instead of a round one, and his features are more delicate and refined than those of the bold Daniel. The expression is gentle, dreamy and pensive, and unless the portrait belies him, he could not have been the stern, domineering captain that he has been represented. He had rather a slender figure, and was probably much more like his mother, who was a Miss Phelps, than the race of Judge Hathorne. He may have been a reticent man, but never a bold one, and we find in him a new departure. His face is more amiable and attractive than his father's, but not so strong. In 1799 he was married to Miss Elizabeth Clarke Manning, the daughter of Richard Manning, and then only nineteen years of age. She appears to have been an exceptionally sensitive and rather shy young woman--such as would be likely to attract the attention of a chivalrous young mariner--but with fine traits of intellect and character. The maternal ancestry of a distinguished man is quite as important as the paternal, but in the present instance it is much more difficult to obtain information concerning it. The increasing fame of Hawthorne has been like a calcium-light, illuminating for the past fifty years everything to which that name attaches, and leaving the Manning family in a shadow so much the deeper. All we can learn of them now is, that they were descended from Richard Manning, of Dartmouth in Devonshire, England, whose son Thomas emigrated to Salem with his widowed mother in 1679, but afterwards removed to Ipswich, ten miles to the north, whence the family has since extended itself far and wide,--the Reverend Jacob M. Manning, of the Old South Church, the fearless champion of practical anti-slaveryism, having been among them. It appears that Thomas's grandson Richard started in life as a blacksmith, which was no strange thing in those primitive times; but, being a thrifty and enterprising man, he lived to establish a line of stage-coaches between Salem and Boston, and this continued in the possession of his family until it was superseded by the Eastern Railway. After this catastrophe, Robert Manning, the son of Richard and brother of Mrs. Nathaniel Hathorne, became noted as a fruit-grower (a business in which Essex County people have always taken an active interest), and was one of the founders of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society. The Mannings were always respected in Salem, although they never came to affluent circumstances, nor did they own a house about the city common. Robert Manning, Jr., was Secretary of the Horticultural Society in Boston for a long term of years, a pleasant, kindly man, with an aspect of general culture. Hawthorne's maternal grandmother was Miriam Lord, of Ipswich, and his paternal grandmother was Rachel Phelps, of Salem. His father was only thirty-three when he died at Surinam. In regard to the family name, there are at present Hawthornes and Hathornes in England, and although the two names may have been identical originally, they have long since become as distinct as Smith and Smythe. I have discovered only two instances in which the first William Hathorne wrote his own name, and in the various documents at the State House in which it appears written by others, it is variously spelled Hathorn, Hathorne, Hawthorn, Haythorne, and Harthorne,--from which we can only conclude that the a was pronounced broadly. It was not until the reign of Queen Anne, when books first became cheap and popular, that there was any decided spelling of either proper or common names. Then the printers took the matter into their own hands and made witch-work enough of it. The word "sovereign," for instance, which is derived from the old French _souvrain_, and which Milton spelled "sovran," they tortured into its present form,--much as the clerks of Massachusetts Colony tortured the name of William Hathorne. This, however, was spelled Hathorne oftener than in other ways, and it was so spelled in the two signatures above referred to, one of which was attached as witness to a deed for the settlement of the boundary between Lynn and Salem, [Footnote: Also in Lathrop's "Hawthorne."] and the other to a report of the commissioners for the investigation of the French vessels coming to Salem and Boston in 1651, the two other commissioners being Samuel Bradstreet and David Denison. [Footnote: Massachusetts Archives, x. 171.]The name was undoubtedly Hathorne, and so it continued with one or two slight variations during the eighteenth century down to the time of Nathaniel Hathorne, Jr., who entered and graduated at Bowdoin College under that name, but who soon afterward changed it to Hawthorne, for reasons that have never been explained. All cognomens would seem to have been derived originally from some personal peculiarity, although it is no longer possible to trace this back to its source, which probably lies far away in the Dark Ages,--the formative period of languages and of families. Sometimes, however, we meet with individuals whose peculiarities suggest the origin of their names: a tall, slender, long-necked man named Crane; or a timid, retiring student named Leverett; or an over-confident, supercilious person called Godkin In the name of Hawthorne also we may imagine a curious significance: "When the may is on the thorn," says Tennyson. The English country people call the flowering of the hawthorn "the may." It is a beautiful tree when in full bloom. How sweet-scented and delicately colored are its blossoms! But it seems to say to us, "Do not come too close to me." CHAPTER II BOYHOOD OF HAWTHORNE: 1804-1821 Salem treasures the memory of Hawthorne, and preserves everything tangible relating to him. The house in which he was born, No. 27 Union Street, is in much the same style and probably of the same age as the Old Manse at Concord, but somewhat smaller, with only a single window on either side of the doorway--five windows in all on the front, one large chimney in the centre, and the roof not exactly a gambrel, for the true gambrel has a curve first inward and then outward, but something like it. A modest, cosy and rather picturesque dwelling, which if placed on a green knoll with a few trees about it might become a subject for a sketching class. It did not belong to Hawthorne's father, after all, but to the widow of the bold Daniel, It was the cradle of genius, and is now a shrine for many pilgrims. Long may it survive, so that our grandchildren may gaze upon it. Here Nathaniel Hawthorne first saw daylight one hundred years ago [Footnote: 1804.] on the Fourth of July, as if to make a protest against Chauvinistic patriotism; here his mother sat at the window to see her husband's bark sail out of the harbor on his last voyage; and here she watched day after day for its return, only to bring a life-long sorrow with it. The life of a sea-captain's wife is always a half-widowhood, but Mrs. Hathorne was left at twenty-eight with three small children, including a daughter, Elizabeth, older than Nathaniel, and another, Louisa, the youngest. The shadow of a heavy misfortune had come upon them, and from this shadow they never wholly escaped. Lowell criticised a letter which John Brown wrote concerning his boyhood to Henry L. Stearns, as the finest bit of autobiography of the nineteenth century.[Footnote: _North American Review_, April 1860.] It is in fact almost the only literature of the kind that we possess. A frequent difficulty that parents find in dealing with their children is, that they have wholly forgotten the sensations and impressions of their own childhood. The instructor cannot place himself in the position of the pupil. A naturalist will spend years with a microscope studying the development of a plant from the seed, but no one has ever applied a similar process to the budding of genius or even of ordinary intellect. We have the autobiography of one of the greatest geniuses, written in the calm and stillness of old age, when youthful memories come back to us involuntarily; yet he barely lifts the veil from his own childhood, and has much more to say of external events and older people than of himself and his young companions. How valuable is the story of George Washington and his hatchet, hackneyed as it has become! What do we know of the boyhood of Franklin, Webster, Seward and Longfellow? Nothing, or next to nothing. [Illustration: WINDOW OF THIS CHAMBER] Goethe says that the admirable woman is she who, when her husband dies, becomes a father to his children; but in the case of Hawthorne's mother, this did not happen to be necessary. Her brother, Robert Manning, a thrifty and fairly prosperous young man, immediately took Mrs. Hathorne and her three children into his house on Herbert Street, and made it essentially a home for them afterward. To the fatherless boy he was more than his own father, away from home ten months of the year, ever could have been; and though young Nathaniel must have missed that tenderness of feeling which a man can only entertain toward his own child, there was no lack of kindness or consideration on Robert Manning's part, to either the boy or his sisters. It was Mrs. Hathorne who chiefly suffered from this change of domicile. She would seem to have been always on good terms with her brother's wife, and on the whole they formed a remarkably harmonious family,--at least we hear nothing to the contrary,--but she was no longer mistress of her own household. She had her daughters to instruct, and to train up in domestic ways, and she could be helpful in various matters, large and small; but the mental occupation which comes from the oversight and direction of household affairs, and which might have served to divert her mind from sorrowful memories, was now gone from her. Her widowhood separated her from the outside world and from all society, excepting a few devoted friends, [Footnote: _Wide Awake_, xxxiii. 502.] so that under these conditions it is not surprising that her life became continually more secluded and reserved. It is probable that her temperament was very similar to her son's; but the impression which has gone forth, that she indulged her melancholy to an excess, is by no means a just one. The circumstances of her case should be taken into consideration. Rebecca Manning says: "I remember aunt Hawthorne as busy about the house, attending to various matters. Her cooking was excellent, and she was noted for a certain kind of sauce, which nobody else knew how to make. We always enjoyed going to see her when we were children, for she took great pains to please us and to give us nice things to eat. Her daughter Elizabeth resembled her in that respect. In old letters and in the journal of another aunt, which has come into our possession, we read of her going about making visits, taking drives, and sometimes going on a journey. In later years she was not well, and I do not remember that she ever came here, but her friends always received a cordial welcome when they visited her." This refers to a late period of Madam Hathorne's life, and if she absented herself from the table, as Elizabeth Peabody states, [Footnote: Lathrop's "Study of Hawthorne."] there was good reason for it. Hawthorne himself has left no word concerning his mother, of favorable or unfavorable import, but it seems probable that he owed his genius to her, if he can be said to have owed it to any of his ancestors. In after life he affirmed that his sister Elizabeth, who appears to have been her mother over again, could have written as well as he did, and although we have no palpable evidence of this--and the letter which she wrote Elizabeth Peabody does not indicate it,--we are willing to take his word for it. With the shyness and proud reserve which he inherited from his mother, there also came that exquisite refinement and feminine grace of style which forms the chief charm of his writing. The same refinement of feeling is noticeable in the letters of other members of the Manning family. Where his imagination came from, it would be useless to speculate; but there is no good art without delicacy. Doctor Nathaniel Peabody lived near the house on Herbert Street, and his daughter Elizabeth (who afterward became a woman of prodigious learning) soon made acquaintance with the Hathorne children. She remembers the boy Nathaniel jumping about his uncle's yard, and this is the first picture that we have of him. When we consider what a beautiful boy he must have been, with his wavy brown hair, large wistful eyes and vigorous figure, without doubt he was a pleasure to look upon. We do not hear of him again until November 10, 1813, when he injured his foot in some unknown manner while at play, and was made lame by it more or less for the three years succeeding. After being laid up for a month, he wrote this pathetic little letter to his uncle, Robert Manning, then in Maine, which I have punctuated properly so that the excellence of its composition may appeal more plainly to the reader. "SALEM, Thursday, December, 1813. "DEAR UNCLE: "I hope you are well, and I hope Richard is too. My foot is no better. Louisa has got so well that she has begun to go to school, but she did not go this forenoon because it snowed. Mama is going to send for Doctor Kitridge to-day, when William Cross comes home at 12 o'clock, and maybe he will do some good, for Doctor Barstow has not, and I don't know as Doctor Kitridge will. It is about 4 weeks yesterday since I have been to school, and I don't know but it will be 4 weeks longer before I go again. I have been out of the office two or three times and have set down on the step of the door, and once I hopped out into the street. Yesterday I went out in the office and had 4 cakes. Hannah carried me out once, but not then. Elizabeth and Louisa send their love to you. I hope you will write to me soon, but I have nothing more to write; so good-bye, dear Uncle. "Your affectionate Nephew, "NATHANIEL HATHORNE." [Footnote: Elizabeth Manning in _Wide Awake_, Nov. 1891.] This is not so precocious as Mozart's musical compositions at the same age, but how could the boy Hawthorne have given a clearer account of himself and his situation at the time, without one word of complaint? It is worth noting also that his prediction in regard to Doctor Kitridge proved to be correct and even more. It is evident that neither of his doctors treated him in a physio-logical manner. Kitridge was a water-cure physician, and his method of treatment deserves to be recorded for its novelty. He directed Nathaniel to project his naked foot out of a sitting-room window, while he poured cold water on it from the story above. This, however, does not appear to have helped the case, and the infirmity continued so long that it was generally feared that his lameness would be permanent. Horatio Bridge considered this a fortunate accident for Nathaniel, since it prevented him from being spoiled by his female relatives, as there is always danger that an only son with two or more sisters will be spoiled. But it was an advantage to the boy in a different manner from this. He learned from it the lesson of suffering and endurance, which we all have to learn sooner or later; and it compelled him, perhaps too young, to seek the comfort of life from internal sources. There were excellent books in the house,--Shakespeare and Milton, of course, but also Pope's "Iliad," Thomson's "Seasons," the "Spectator," "Pilgrim's Progress," and the "Faerie Queene," and the time had now come when these would be serviceable to him. He was not the only boy that has enjoyed Shakespeare at the age of ten, but that he should have found interest in Spenser's "Faerie Queene" is somewhat exceptional. Even among professed _littérateurs_ there are few that read that long allegory, and still fewer who enjoy it; and yet Miss Manning assures us that Hawthorne would muse over it for hours. Its influence may be perceptible in some of his shorter stories, but "Pilgrim's Progress" evidently had an effect upon him; and so had Scott's novels, as we may judge from the first romance that he published. At the age of twelve years and seven months he composed a short poem, so perfect in form and mature in judgment that it is difficult to believe that so young a person could have written it. Not so poetic as it is philosophical, it is valuable as indicating that the boy had already formed a moral axis for himself,--a life principle from which he never afterward deviated; and it is given herewith: [Footnote: A facsimile of the original can be found in _Wide Awake_, November, 1891.] "MODERATE VIEWS. "With passions unruffled, untainted by pride, By reason my life let me square; The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied, And the rest are but folly and care. How vainly through infinite trouble and strife, The many their labours employ, Since all, that is truly delightful in life, Is what all if they please may enjoy. "NATHANIEL HATHORNE. "SALEM, February 13, 1817." He wrote this with the greatest nicety, framing it in broad black lines, and ornamenting the capitals in a manner that recalls the decoration of John Hath
believed, at the instance of Laco. Laco had met Piso at Rubellius Plautus' house and they had formed a friendship, but he cunningly pretended that he was supporting a stranger, and Piso's good repute gave colour to this policy. Piso was a noble on both sides, being the son of Marcus Crassus and Scribonia. There was an old-world austerity in his face and bearing, and just critics spoke of his strict morality: people who took a less favourable view thought him soured. But while those who disliked this side of his character carped at it, it was a recommendation in the eyes of the emperor who intended to adopt him. Galba is said to have taken Piso's hand and addressed him as 15 follows: 'Were I a private citizen, and were I to adopt you in the presence of the Priests by the usual formality of a curial statute,[39] it would be an honour for me to introduce into my family a descendant of Cnaeus Pompeius and of Marcus Crassus, and for you it would be a distinction to add to your noble ancestry the glories of the Sulpician and Lutatian houses.[40] As it is, I have been called by the consent of gods and men to be an emperor. Your distinguished qualities and your patriotism have persuaded me to offer to you peacefully and quietly the throne for which our ancestors fought on the field of battle,[41] and which I too won by war. In so doing I am following the precedent set by the sainted Augustus, who raised to the rank next himself first his nephew Marcellus, then his son-in-law Agrippa, then his daughter's sons,[42] and finally his stepson Tiberius Nero. However, while Augustus looked for a successor in his own family, I have searched throughout the country. Not that I lack either kinsmen or supporters, but it was by no favour of birth that I myself came to the throne, and, to prove my policy in this matter, consider how I have passed over not only my own relatives but yours. You have an elder brother,[43] as noble as yourself. He would have been worthy of this position, but you are worthier. You are old enough to have outlived youthful passions. Your life has been such that you have nothing in your past to excuse. So far you have only experienced misfortune. Prosperity probes the heart with a keener touch; misery only calls for patience, but there is corruption in success. Honesty, candour, and affection are the best of human qualities, and doubtless you yourself have enough character to retain them. But the complaisance of others will weaken your character. Flattery and servile compliments will break down its defences and self-interest too, the bane of all sincerity. What though you and I can talk plainly with each other to-day? Others will address themselves not to us but to our fortunes. To persuade an emperor what he ought to do is a laborious task: any one can flatter him without a spark of sincerity. 'If the vast bulk of this empire could stand and keep its balance 16 without a guiding hand, the Republic might well have dated its birth from me. As it is, things have long ago come to such a pass that neither I in my old age can give the Roman people any better gift than a good successor, nor you in your prime anything better than a good emperor. Under Tiberius, Caligula, and Claudius, Rome was the heirloom of a single family. There is a kind of liberty in the free choice we have begun to exercise. Now that the Julian and Claudian houses are extinct, by the plan of adoption the best man will always be discovered. Royal birth is the gift of fortune, and is but valued as such. In adoption we can use a free judgement, and if we wish to choose well, the voice of the country points the way. Think of Nero, swollen with the pride of his long line of royal ancestry. It was not Vindex with a powerless province at his back, nor I with a single legion that freed Rome's shoulders of that burden: it was his own cruelty and profligacy. And that was before there was any precedent for the conviction of an emperor. 'We have been called to the throne by the swords of those who thought us worthy. Our high state will not escape the eye of envy. You may be sure of that. But there is no reason for you to feel alarm because in this world-wide upheaval a couple of legions have not yet settled down. I myself did not succeed to a safe and peaceful throne, and, when once the news of your adoption is spread, I shall cease to be charged with my advanced age, which is now the only fault they find in me. The rascals will always miss Nero: you and I have got to see that good citizens do not miss him too. 'A longer sermon would ill befit the time and I have fulfilled my purpose, if I have done right in choosing you. The soundest and easiest criterion of right and wrong policy is to consider what you would have approved or condemned in another emperor. For Rome is not like the nations which are ruled by kings, where one house is supreme and the rest are slaves. Your future subjects are men who cannot endure the extremes either of bondage or of freedom.' Galba spoke these words and more to the same effect in the tone of one creating an emperor: the rest addressed Piso as though he were emperor already. He is said to have betrayed no sign of amazement or 17 elation either before those who were then present, or later when everybody's eyes centred upon him. His language to his emperor and adoptive father was deeply respectful and he spoke modestly of himself. He made no change in his expression or bearing, showing himself more able than anxious to rule. A discussion then took place whether the adoption should be announced before the people or in the senate, or in the guards' camp. They decided in favour of the camp, on the ground that it would be a compliment to the troops, whose goodwill was hard to win by flattery or bribes, but was by no means to be despised, if it could be won by good means. Meanwhile the curiosity of the populace, impatient of any important secret, had brought together crowds all round the Palace, and when once the rumour began to leak out an attempt at suppression only resulted in spreading it. The tenth of January was a dreary wet day, and an extraordinary 18 storm of thunder and lightning showed the displeasure of Providence. Such phenomena were regarded in old days as a sign for the suspension of public business, but they did not deter Galba from proceeding to the camp. Either he disregarded such things as the result of pure chance or else he felt that the blows of fate may be foretold but not forestalled. He addressed a crowded assembly of the soldiers with true imperial brevity, stating simply that in adopting Piso he was following the example of the sainted Augustus, and the old military custom whereby each man chose another.[44] He was afraid that by suppressing the news of the German rebellion he might only seem to exaggerate the danger, so he voluntarily declared that the Fourth and Twenty-second legions had been led by a few traitors into seditious murmurings but no further, and would soon return to their allegiance. He made no attempt to enhance his words either by eloquence or largess. However, the tribunes and centurions and those of the soldiers who stood nearest to him gave well-sounding answers. The rest were sorry and silent, for the war seemed to have lost them the largess that had always been usual even in peace. Everybody agrees that they could have been won over had the parsimonious old emperor made the least display of generosity. He was ruined by his strict old-fashioned inflexibility, which seems too rigorous for these degenerate days. From the camp they proceeded to the senate, and Galba's speech to 19 its members was no fuller or finer than to the soldiers. Piso spoke graciously, and there was no lack of support in the senate. Many wished him well. Those who did not were the more effusive. The majority were indifferent, but displayed a ready affability, intent on their private speculations without thought of the country's good. No other public action is reported of Piso during the four days which intervened between his adoption and assassination. FOOTNOTES: [32] i.e. the emperor's finance agent in the province of Belgica. [33] Cp. chap. 6. [34] A gold signet-ring was the sign of a free-born Roman knight. Its grant to freedmen was an innovation of which Tacitus disapproved. [35] Tacitus here follows the story told by Suetonius in his life of Otho. In the _Annals_, xiii. 45, 46, Tacitus gives in detail a more probable version. It is more likely that Poppaea used Otho as a stepping-stone to Nero's favour than that Otho, as Suetonius quotes, 'committed adultery with his own wife.' [36] See chap. 5, note 10. [37] One of the three Commissioners of Public Revenue appointed by Nero in A.D. 62 (_Ann._, xv. 18). [38] Lucius Calpurnius Piso Frugi Licinianus was the son of M. Licinius Crassus Frugi, and adopted son of L. Calpurnius Piso Frugi. His mother, Scribonia, was a descendant of Pompey. [39] Adoption from one family into another needed in old days the sanction of the Comitia Curiata. When that assembly became obsolete, the priests summoned a formal meeting of thirty lictors, and their sanction of an act of adoption was still called _lex curiata_. Galba was now _Pontifex maximus_. [40] Galba belonged to the _Gens Sulpicia_, and was connected through his mother, Mummia, with Q. Lutatius Catulus, who had led the senatorial party in the first half of the last century. [41] i.e. Galba's great-grandfather had fought for Caesar against Piso's ancestor, Pompey. [42] The children of Julia and Agrippa. [43] Crassus Scribonianus, cp. chap. 47, and iv. 39. [44] i.e. co-optation, employed in former days to raise a special contingent for emergencies. GALBA'S MEASURES OF PRECAUTION Reports of the German rebellion grew daily more insistent and the public was always ready to believe any news, provided it was bad. Accordingly the senate decided that a commission must be sent to the army in Germany. It was discussed in private whether Piso should go himself to add dignity to the commission, since he could carry the authority of the emperor, while the others represented the senate. It was also proposed to send Laco, the prefect of the Guards, but he objected. The senate had allowed Galba to nominate the commissioners and he showed the most miserable indecision, now nominating members, now excusing them, now making exchanges, yielding always to pressure from people who wanted to go or to stay at home according as they were determined by their hopes or their fears. The next question was 20 one of finance. After investigating all possible sources it seemed most reasonable to recover the revenue from those quarters where the cause of the deficit lay. Nero had squandered in lavish presents two thousand two hundred million sesterces.[45] Galba gave instructions that these monies should be recovered from the individual recipients, leaving each a tithe of their original gift. However, in each case there was scarcely a tenth part left, for these worthless spendthrifts had run through Nero's money as freely as they had squandered their own: they had no real property or capital left, nothing but the apparatus of their luxury. Thirty of the knights were entrusted with the duty of recovering the money. This commission, for which there was no precedent, proved vastly unpopular owing to the scope of its authority, and the large number of the victims. Every quarter seemed beset with sales and brokers and lawsuits. And yet lively satisfaction was caused by the discovery that the beneficiaries of Nero's bounty were as poor as the victims of his greed. At this time several officers were cashiered, Antonius Taurus and Antonius Naso of the Guards, Aemilius Pacensis of the City Garrison, and Julius Fronto of the Police.[46] However, this proved no remedy. The others only began to feel alarmed, thinking that Galba's craft and timidity had sacrificed a few, while his suspicions rested on them all. FOOTNOTES: [45] About twenty-three million sterling of our money. [46] i.e. of the cohorts which formed the police and fire-brigade of the city. See chap. 5, note 10. THE RISE OF OTHO Meanwhile Otho had nothing to hope from a peaceful settlement: all 21 his plans demanded a disturbance. Many motives spurred him on: his extravagance would have ruined a prince, and his poverty have perplexed a private person: he was angry with Galba and jealous of Piso. He also alleged fears for his safety, by way of whetting his ambition. 'I proved a nuisance to Nero,' he would say, 'and can scarcely expect the compliment of a second exile to Lusitania.[47] Besides, monarchs always hate and suspect the man who is mentioned as "next to the throne". This was what did me harm with the old emperor, and it will weigh still more with the youthful Piso, who is naturally savage and has been exasperated by a long period of exile. It would be easy to kill me. I must do and dare while Galba's authority is on the wane and Piso's not yet established. These times of change suit big enterprises; inaction is more deadly than daring; there is no call for delay. Death is the natural end for all alike, and the only difference is between fame and oblivion afterwards. Seeing that the same end awaits the innocent and the guilty, a man of spirit should at least deserve his fate.' Otho's character was by no means so effeminate as his person. His 22 intimate freedmen and slaves, who were allowed a licence unusual in private households, dangled before him the baits for which he was greedy: the luxuries of Nero's Court, the marriages he could make, the adulteries he could commit, and all the other imperial pleasures. They were his, they pointed out, if he would bestir himself; it was shameful to lie quiet and leave them to others. He was also incited by the astrologers, who declared that their study of the stars pointed to great changes and a year of glory for Otho. Creatures of this class always deceive the ambitious, though those in power distrust them. Probably we shall go on for ever proscribing them and keeping them by us.[48] Poppaea[49] had always had her boudoir full of these astrologers, the worst kind of outfit for a royal ménage. One of them, called Ptolemy, had gone with Otho to Spain[50] and foretold that he would outlive Nero. This came true and Otho believed in him. He now based his vague conjectures on the computations of Galba's age and Otho's youth, and persuaded him that he would ascend the throne. But, though the man had no real skill, Otho accepted the prophecy as if it was the finger of fate. Human nature always likes to believe what it cannot understand. Nor was Ptolemy himself slow to incite his master to crime, to 23 which it is only a short step from such ambitions. But whether his criminal designs were deliberate or suddenly conceived, it is impossible to say. He had long been courting the goodwill of the soldiers either in the hope of being adopted by Galba or to prepare the way for treason. On the road from Spain, while the men were marching or on outpost duty, he would address the veterans by name, reminding them how he and they had served together under Nero, and calling them his comrades. He renewed acquaintance with some, asked after others and helped them with money or influence, frequently letting fall complaints and ambiguous remarks about Galba, using all the arts which work upon uneducated minds. The soldiers grumbled bitterly at the exertions of the march, the shortage of provisions, and the strict discipline. What they were used to was a journey to the Campanian Lakes or Greek seaports on board ship;[51] they found it hard to struggle over the Pyrenees and Alps, and march immense distances under arms. While the soldiers were thus already fired with discontent, 24 Maevius Pudens, one of Tigellinus'[52] intimates, added fuel to their feelings by luring on all who were naturally unstable or in need of money, or rashly eager for a change. Eventually, whenever Galba dined with him, Otho went the length of presenting a hundred sesterces to each of the soldiers on guard, on the pretext that this was instead of entertaining them.[53] This system of public largess Otho extended by making presents in confidence to individuals, and such spirit did he show in bribery that when a member of the Body Guard, Cocceius Proculus, brought an action to claim part of his neighbour's farm, Otho bought the whole property out of his own pocket and gave it to him. He was enabled to do this by the inefficiency of the Prefect Laco, who was no less blind to notorious than to secret scandals. Otho then put Onomastus, one of his freedmen, in charge of the 25 projected crime, and Onomastus took into his confidence Barbius Proculus, an aide-de-camp, and a subaltern named Veturius, both in the Body Guard.[54] Having assured himself by many interviews that they were both bold and cunning, Otho proceeded to load them with bribes and promises, providing them with funds to enable them to test the feelings of the others. And so a couple of common soldiers took it upon them to transfer the Roman Empire: and they did it. A very few were admitted as accomplices. These, by various devices, worked on the indecision of the others. The non-commissioned officers who had been promoted by Nymphidius felt themselves under suspicion; the private soldiers were indignant and in despair at the constant postponement of Galba's largess; some few were fired by the recollection of Nero's régime and longed for the days of licence; all in common shared the fear of being drafted out of the Praetorian Guards. The infection of treason soon spread to the legions and 26 auxiliaries, whose excitement had been aroused as soon as they heard that the armies of Germany were wavering in their allegiance. So, as the disloyal were ready for treason and the loyal shut their eyes, they at first determined to acclaim Otho as he was returning from dinner on the night of the fourteenth. However, they hesitated: the darkness spelt uncertainty, the troops were scattered all over the town, and unanimity could scarcely be expected from drunken men. They were not deterred by any affection for their country's honour, which they were deliberately preparing to stain with its emperor's blood, but they were afraid that, as Otho was unknown to the majority, some one else might by mistake be offered to the Pannonian or German legions and proclaimed emperor. Some evidence of the brewing plot leaked out, but it was suppressed by the conspirators. Rumours even reached Galba's ears, but Laco made light of them, being totally ignorant of soldiers' characters, hostile to any suggestion, however wise, that was not his own, and extremely obstinate with men who knew more than he did. On January 15, as Galba was sacrificing in front of the temple of 27 Apollo, the priest Umbricius declared the omens unfavourable: treason was impending, and an enemy within the walls. Otho, who was standing beside Galba, overheard and construed the omen as being from his own point of view a good one, favourable to his plans. In a few moments his freedman, Onomastus, announced that the architect and contractors were waiting to see him. This had been agreed upon as the signal that the troops were assembling and the conspiracy was ripe. On being asked where he was going, Otho pretended that he was buying an old property, but suspected its condition and so had to inspect it first. Thus, leaning on his freedman's shoulder, he passed through Tiberius' house into the Velabrum and thence to the Golden Milestone at the foot of the Temple of Saturn.[55] There thirty-three soldiers of the Body Guard saluted him as emperor. When he showed alarm at the smallness of their number they put him hastily into a litter, and, drawing their swords, hurried him away. About the same number of soldiers joined them on the way, some accomplices, others merely curious. Some marched along shouting and flourishing swords; others kept silent, intending to take their cue from subsequent events. Julius Martialis was the tribune on duty in the camp. He was so 28 overcome by the magnitude of this unexpected crime and so afraid that the treason was widespread in the camp, and that he might be killed if he offered any opposition, that he led most people to suppose he was in the plot. So, too, the other tribunes and centurions all preferred present safety to a risky loyalty. In fact the general attitude was this: few dared to undertake so foul a crime, many wished to see it done, and everybody was ready to condone it. FOOTNOTES: [47] Cp. chap. 13. [48] Decrees excluding astrologers from Italy had been passed in B.C. 33, A.D. 16, and again in A.D. 52. Vitellius passed another. See ii. 62. [49] Nero's wife. Cp. chap. 13. [50] i.e. to Lusitania. See chap. 13. [51] They were 'Guards' who had escorted Nero on his singing tours through Greece. Perhaps some of them came to meet Galba on his way from Spain. Otherwise they could not have shared the toils of this march. [52] See chap. 72. [53] The public dinner given in older days by patrons to their clients had long ago been commuted for a 'tip' (sportula). Pudens, instead of providing dinner for Galba's guard, sought their favour by giving them about 17_s._ apiece. [54] The English terms do not of course represent the exact position of these soldiers. The former was one of the emperor's personal body-guard (speculatores), who received the watchword (tessera) and passed it round: the latter was one to whom a centurion had delegated some part of his work. [55] Plutarch explains this. 'He passed through Tiberius' house, as it is called, and walked down to the Forum, where stands the golden pillar to which all the high-roads of Italy lead.' The Velabrum lies between the Forum, the Tiber, and the Aventine. THE FALL OF GALBA Meanwhile Galba in total ignorance and intent upon his sacrifices 29 continued to importune the gods of an empire that had already ceased to be his. First there came a rumour that some one or other of the senators was being hurried to the camp, then that it was Otho. Immediately people who had met Otho came flocking in from all quarters of Rome; some in their terror exaggerated the truth, some minimized it, remembering even then to flatter. After discussion it was decided that the temper of the cohort on guard in the palace should be tested, but not by Galba himself. His authority was held in reserve for more heroic remedies. The troops were summoned. Piso, standing out on the steps of the palace, addressed them as follows: 'Fellow soldiers, it is now five days since I was made a Caesar. I knew nothing of the future nor whether the name was more to be desired or feared. It now lies with you to decide whether or no my adoption is to prove a calamity for my house and for my country. In saying this, I do not dread disaster on my own account. I have known misfortune, and I am now discovering to the full that prosperity is just as dangerous. But for the sake of my adoptive father, of the senate, and of the whole empire, I deplore the thought that we may have to-day either to die or--what for good men is as wretched--to kill. In the recent revolution our comfort was that Rome was spared the sight of blood, and the transfer was effected without disturbance. We thought that my adoption would be a safeguard against an outbreak of civil war even after Galba's death. 'I will make no claims to rank or respectability. To compare 30 myself with Otho, I need not recite my virtues. His vices are all he has to be proud of. They ruined the empire, even when he was only playing the part of an emperor's friend. Why should he deserve to be emperor? For his swaggering demeanour? For his effeminate costume? Extravagance imposes on some people. They take it for liberality. They are wrong. He will know how to squander money, but not how to give it away. His mind is full of lechery and debauchery and intrigues with women. These are in his eyes the prerogatives of the throne. And the pleasure of his vices would be all his, the blushes of shame would be ours. No man has ever ruled well who won the throne by bad means. 'The whole Roman world agreed to give Galba the title of Caesar. Galba with your approval gave that title to me. Even if the "country", the "senate", the "people", are empty terms, it is to your interest, my fellow soldiers, to see that it is not the rascals who create an emperor. From time to time one hears of the legionaries being in mutiny against their generals. But your good faith and your good name have stood to this day unimpaired. It was not you who deserted Nero: he deserted you. Are you going to allow less than thirty deserters and renegades to bestow the crown? Why! no one would tolerate their choosing so much as a centurion or a tribune for themselves. Are you going to allow this precedent, and by your acquiescence make their crime your own? You will soon see this lawless spirit spreading to the troops abroad, and in time the treason will recoil on us and the war on you. Besides, innocence wins you as much as the murder of your emperor: you will get from us as large a bounty for your loyalty as you would from others for your crime.' The members of the Body Guard dispersed. The rest of the cohort 31 paid some heed to his speech. Aimlessly, as happens in moments of confusion, they seized their standards, without as yet any fixed plan, and not, as was afterwards believed, to cloak their treachery. Marius Celsus had been dispatched to the picked detachments of the Illyrian army, which were quartered in the Vipsanian arcade,[56] while instructions had been given to two senior centurions,[57] Amullius Serenus and Domitius Sabinus, to summon the German troops from the Hall of Liberty. They distrusted the legion of marines, who had been alienated by Galba's butchery of their comrades on his entry into Rome.[58] Three officers of the guards, Cetrius Severus, Subrius Dexter, and Pompeius Longinus, also hurried to the camp in the hope that the mutiny was still in its early stages and might be averted by good advice before it came to a head. The soldiers attacked Subrius and Cetrius with threats and forcibly seizing Longinus disarmed him, because he had not come in virtue of his military rank, but simply as one of Galba's private friends; and for his loyalty to his master the rebels disliked him all the more. The marines without any hesitation joined the guards. The Illyrian draft[59] drove Celsus away at the point of their javelins. The German detachments[59] wavered for some time. They were still in poor condition physically, and inclined to be passive. Nero had dispatched them as an advance-guard to Alexandria;[60] the long voyage back again had damaged their health, and Galba had spared no expense in looking after them. The whole populace of Rome was now crowding into the palace 32 together with a good sprinkling of slaves. With discordant shouts they demanded the death of Otho and the doom of the conspirators. They might have been in the circus or the theatre, clamouring for entertainment. There was neither sense nor sincerity in their behaviour. They were quite ready on the same day to clamour for the opposite with equal zeal. But it is an established custom to flatter any emperor with unbridled cheering and meaningless enthusiasm. Meanwhile Galba was torn between two opinions. Titus Vinius maintained that they ought to remain within the palace, employ the slaves to offer resistance and block up all the doors, instead of going out to face the angry troops. 'This will give time,' he urged, 'for the disloyal to repent and the loyal to unite their forces. Crimes demand haste, good counsels profit by delay. Besides, if need be, we shall have the same chance of leaving the palace later: if we leave and repent of it, it will not be in our power to return.' All the others voted for immediate action before the conspiracy 33 gathered strength and numbers. 'Otho,' they argued, 'will soon lose heart. He crept away by stealth and was introduced in a litter to a parcel of strangers, and now because we dally and waste time he has leisure to rehearse his part of emperor. What is the good of waiting until Otho sets his camp in order and approaches the Capitol, while Galba peeps out of a window? Are this famous general and his gallant friends to shut the doors and not to stir a foot over the threshold, as if they were anxious to endure a siege? Much help may we hope from slaves, when once the unwieldy crowd loses its unity and their first indignation, which counts for so much, begins to cool. No, cowardice is too risky. Or if we must fall, let us meet the danger half-way, and cover Otho with disgrace, ourselves with honour.' When Vinius resisted this proposal, Laco, prompted by Icelus, assailed him with threats, persisting in his private quarrel to the ruin of his country. Galba without further delay supported those 34 whose plan would look best. However, Piso was first dispatched to the camp. The young man had a great name, his popularity was still fresh, and moreover, he disliked Titus Vinius, or, if he did not, Vinius' enemies hoped he did: it is so easy to believe in hatred. Scarcely had Piso departed, when there arrived a rumour that Otho had been killed in the camp. At first it was vague and uncertain, but eventually, as so often happens with daring lies, people began to assert that they had been present and seen the deed. Some were glad and some indifferent, so the news gained easy credence. Many, however, thought that the report had been concocted and disseminated by friends of Otho, who now mingled in the crowd and tried to lure Galba out by spreading this agreeable falsehood. At this point not only the 35 populace and the inexperienced mob but many of the knights and senators as well broke out into applause and unbridled enthusiasm. With their fear they had lost their caution. Breaking open the palace gates they rushed in and presented themselves before Galba, complaining that they had been forestalled in the task of revenge. All the cowards who, as events proved, could show no pluck in action, indulged in excessive heroics and lip-courage. Nobody knew, everybody talked. At last, for lack of the truth, Galba yielded to the consensus of error. When he had put on his breastplate he was lifted into a chair, for he was too old and infirm to stand against the crowds that kept flocking in. In the palace he was met by Julius Atticus, of the Body Guard, who displayed a dripping sword and shouted out that he had killed Otho. 'Comrade,' said Galba, 'who bade you?' Galba had a remarkable power of curbing soldiers' presumption, for he was not afraid of threats nor moved by flattery. Meanwhile in Otho's camp there was no longer any doubt of the 36 soldiers' unanimity. Such was their enthusiasm that they were not content with carrying Otho shoulder-high in procession; they placed him among the standards on the platform, where shortly before a gilt statue of Galba had stood, and made a ring round him with their colours.[61] Tribunes and centurions were allowed no approach: the common soldiers even called out, 'Beware of the officers.' The whole camp resounded with confused shouts of mutual encouragement. It was quite unlike the wavering and spiritless flattery of a civil mob. As new adherents streamed in, directly a soldier caught sight of one of them, he grasped him by the hand, flung his arms round him, kept him at his side, and dictated the oath of allegiance. Some commended their general to his soldiers, and some the soldiers to their general. Otho, for his part, was not slow to greet the crowd with outstretched hand and throw kisses to them. In every way he played the slave to gain a throne. When the whole legion of the marines had sworn allegiance, he gained confidence in his strength, and, considering that those whom he had incited individually needed a few words of general encouragement, he stood out on the rampart and began as follows:--'In what guise 37 I come forward to address you, Fellow Soldiers, I cannot tell. Dubbed emperor by you, I dare not call myself a private citizen: yet "emperor" I cannot say with another on the throne. And what am I to call you? That too will remain in doubt until it is decided whether you have here in your camp an enemy or an emperor of Rome. You hear how they clamour at once for my death and your punishment. So clear is it that we must fall or stand together. Doubtless Galba--such is his clemency--has already promised our destruction. Is he not the man who without the least excuse butchered thousands of utterly innocent soldiers?[62] I shudder whenever I recall his ghastly entry into the city, when before the face of Rome he ordered the decimation of the troops whom at their humble petition he had taken under his protection. That is Galba's only "victory". These were the auspices under which he made his entry; and what glory has he brought to the throne he occupies, save the murder of Obultronius Sabinus and Cornelius Marcellus in Spain, of Betuus Cilo
beside him and knew his friend was just as uncomfortable as he. But they had to stay put. There was no other place they could go at this moment. Finally, the men came out of the space taxi, closed the door, and, to the relief of Garry and Patch, disappeared up the corridor. Garry stood up and hugged himself. "Garry, I--I'm freezing to death," Patch chattered. "So am I. We sure can't stay here like this," Garry replied. "Why don't we try getting into one of these ships?" Patch suggested. "Maybe they've got heaters inside." Garry pressed the button of the ship which they had been hiding behind, but the door did not open. "The power is off or something," Garry groaned. "Maybe the first one will open," Patch said. "It worked for those men." Garry went over to the first craft and pressed the door button. Instantly, the door sprang open. A tiny air-lock chamber faced them. "Thank goodness," Patch murmured. "Let's go in." "What if the men come back?" Garry cautioned. "They may be preparing for a trip." "There are windows facing the corridor," Patch said. "We can keep an eye out for them and duck for cover again if they return. Gee, let's try it anyhow, Garry! I feel like a penguin that's lost all its feathers!" Garry agreed and entered the flier, Patch climbing in behind. A second door led from the air lock chamber into the flier proper. Besides the pilot's seat, there were six other seats, three on a side. It was warmer in here than outside, and Garry felt heat gently blowing. This made him suspect that the men had just turned it on and that they were going to return for a trip in the craft. "I'm afraid we won't have long to stay in here," Garry told his friend and mentioned his suspicion to him. "I guess you're right," Patch agreed. "Where will we go from here? Garry, I'm tired of running. And I'm getting more scared by the minute because of what we're doing. Why don't we just turn ourselves in and face the music, whatever it is?" Through a window of the taxi, Garry was watching the corridor for signs of the returning men. "I guess you're right, Patch," he said. "We'll give ourselves up when those men return." "I don't think we should wait until then," Patch objected. "It will go a lot easier for us if we give ourselves up voluntarily instead of looking as if we had been caught." Once again Garry agreed, but, as he was reaching for the button to open the door, he heard a click. "What was that?" Patch asked in alarm. "What did you do?" "Nothing," Garry said. "Something was operating all by itself." A soft purring sound began to be heard inside the craft, and Garry felt the little ship vibrating ever so softly. "Patch," Garry said tensely, "I don't like this." He tried the door button, but it would not work. "What's happening?" Patch asked, and there was fright in his voice. A movement outside in the dock caught the boys' eyes. Through the wide front port of the ship, they watched a big door slide open, revealing a dark air-lock tunnel--a tunnel large enough to hold the craft which they were occupying! "Garry," Patch repeated, "what's happening!" Garry slumped into one of the seats, fear numbing his heart. "Now I know what kind of ship this is, Patch," he murmured. "It's remote controlled, guided by an operator inside the space station. We're heading straight out into space, Patch!" 4. ADRIFT IN THE DEEPS Trapped within the space taxi, Garry and Patch watched the darkness of space enlarge before their eyes as the ship emerged from the air-lock tunnel of the space station. The stars about them were countless lights, some packed so closely together that they trailed across the sky like distant streaming veils. But the boys had no eye for their beauty at this time. "Garry," Patch asked in a dismal voice, "what's going to happen to us?" "As long as they have control of the ship, I guess we'll be all right," Garry replied. "Maybe they are just sending the ship out on a practice run or possibly to pick someone up." "Pick someone up?" Patch asked, puzzled. "I was thinking of satellite workers or repairmen. The skies out here are flooded with satellites, you know. They must have men working on them all the time," Garry explained. Garry heard a hissing sound. He found a slit in the wall from which it was coming. Near the opening was a gauge. "That's an oxygen mixture coming in," Garry said. "It's probably automatic. It turns on whenever the air pressure drops or becomes fouled." "That's something in our favor," Patch said grudgingly. Garry found his feet beginning to lift weightlessly off the floor. His body sagged off balance, and he had to hold onto a handle on one of the seats. "Garry, what'll we do?" Patch exclaimed frantically. "We're going weightless!" "Let's look for a wardrobe compartment," Garry suggested. "Since these fliers are used as lifeboats sometimes, there must be space suits and things. Maybe we'll find magnetic shoes, too." "How'll we ever get around in here to look for anything?" Patch sputtered. By now he was floating, his legs and arms flailing helplessly like a bug on its back. Using the handles on the backs of the seats, Garry worked his way across to a cabinet set in the wall. Then he moved from the last seat handle to the wall rail and worked himself down it to the plastic case. Through the clear window Garry could see space suits and accessories. He pressed a button, and the door popped open. "We're in luck, Patch," Garry reported. "There are magnetic shoes in here. I hope the gravity plates in the floor are working." Garry managed to pick up two pairs of the shoes, tucking one pair under one arm. That left one hand holding the second pair and the other hand free. Even then, it took quite some doing for him to work his way across to Patch, who looked like a pennant floating in the breeze as he hung crossways in the air, one hand tightly clutching a seat handle. "Garry, I don't feel so good," Patch complained. "Everything in me feels like its pushing upward. Even my brain seems to be floating." "It's lack of gravity doing that," Garry said. "You are used to gravity always pulling down on you. When that pull is gone, it makes you feel as if your body is moving up. At least that's what all the books say. And I believe them, because I feel that way myself. Here are your shoes. They're pretty big, but they'll be better than nothing." "Garry, how'll I ever get them on?" Patch protested. "I'll hold onto you while you put them on," Garry offered. "That'll make it easier--I guess." Garry got behind Patch and held him by the collar. Then began Patch's struggles with the shoes. It was comical for Garry to see his friend having such a hard time, but he knew Patch would have the laugh on him later. It took them both a good while to get the shoes on. When the floor current of the gravity plates finally held them down, the boys laughed at each other in their oversized equipment. "I guess we look like snowshoe rabbits with our big feet!" Patch said with a laugh. "Good thing those straps pulled up tight, or we'd never be able to keep them on." The craft had been moving along smoothly, but before long it began to shudder irregularly. "The jets have cut out, Patch," Garry said. "We're coasting. Without any air friction out here in space, we _could_ coast along forever." "Garry, don't say that!" Patch gasped. But Garry found out that his guess was wrong, and he was glad that it had been. Presently, twin jets of flame were seen pouring from the front of the craft. "Garry, we're on fire!" Patch shouted. "No, they're the braking jets," Garry corrected. "We're being slowed down, Patch! I think we'll find out very soon now what our destination is." "Thank goodness for that," Patch replied. "You know, you got me plenty worried when you said that we might coast forever out here. Although after about a hundred years I probably wouldn't mind any longer!" "Look, Patch," Garry cried. "Up ahead--a satellite! That must be where we're headed!" As they approached, the craft still being slowed by the braking jets, Garry and Patch took in the scene before them. The satellite itself somewhat resembled a giant radio speaker. Its largest area was a huge reflecting surface, and this surface was made up of adjustable panels that could be banked in any direction. The boys could see around the side of the satellite, and backing up the front broad surface was a block-shaped structure with windows. As the tiny space craft drew closer, the boys saw a hatch open in the rear structure, and two men in space suits emerged, holding onto hand rails on the outside of the satellite. "That's one of the radio and TV relay satellites, Patch," Garry said. "There are three of them, spaced equally around the earth, for relaying TV and radio all over the world. Our ship has probably been sent out to pick up these men and bring them back to the station." "Won't they be surprised when they see us aboard?" Patch remarked. Garry noticed that the space taxi seemed to be moving a little off course, and this disturbed him, especially since one of the forward jets had cut off but the other hadn't. The craft was veering steadily away from the satellite and slowing rapidly. Finally, it came to a dead stop several hundred yards from the satellite, but then it began backing up. As the craft gained speed in reverse, Garry and Patch were nearly knocked off their feet from the acceleration. "The front jet is propelling us backward!" Garry cried. "There's something wrong with the remote control!" The craft began going into a dizzy spin. The boys had to hold on tightly to some anchored support to keep from being flung against the wall. Garry watched the satellite become lost against the sprawling background of stars. He knew they were hurtling farther out into space, out of control, headed for a destination now that even the space-station operators might not know. The boys were so disheartened by the latest bad break that, for the time being, they did not care what happened to them. This lowering of their spirits seemed to remind them that they were a long time past their slumber time, and they suddenly became very sleepy. By earth time, it would be the dark hours before dawn. They went to sleep on their feet, because in the zero gravity there was no need for them to lie down. Their magnetic soles held them in place to keep them from drifting about as they slept. Garry was the first to wake up, hours later. There was no way for him to know how much time had passed. He woke his friend, who stretched and yawned. "I never thought I'd be able to sleep standing up," Patch said. "I feel like a horse." "We got a good rest," Garry said. "I guess that's because of the zero gravity." Patch looked gloomily out of the front port of the flier. "We're still no better off than we were before, though, Garry, but, I think we have stopped moving." Garry shook his head. "It just seems like we're not moving because the stars and everything else around us are so still. We're moving all right--and fast. This ship may still be moving after we're dead, even if we could live for a hundred years, because there's nothing ever to slow us down out here; that is, unless we happened to move into the gravity field of some planet, which would pull us down." "I knew we should have turned ourselves in when we had the chance," Patch said mournfully. "If we had, we wouldn't be in this fix now." Garry agreed. "It's all my fault for trying to hold out so long." "Well, too late now to do anything," Patch said. "I don't think we should give up hope," Garry said. "They might still send out a ship to try to pick up this one. They know it's lost, but of course they don't know there's anybody in it, and they may not know where to look for it." He investigated the sloping wall between him and the front window. The middle of it was shaped something like an old-fashioned roll-top desk, closed up. "Hmm," Garry thought to himself. "This ship has been run by remote control until now, but why shouldn't it have controls of its own? If it does have them, they should be right here in front of me." Garry's hopes soared again as he ran his hands over the light-green plastic slope in front of him. "A button," he whispered. "There must be a button or something that opens this thing up." "Hey, what're you mumbling about?" Patch asked. Garry was too concerned with what he was doing to answer his friend. Suddenly, he found something on the left side of the instrument. It was a button. He pressed it. Two covers began swinging open in front of him, as stage curtains would do, revealing a bank of dials and levers. "Patch!" Garry shouted. "Look what!" Patch came clicking over in his magnetic shoes. "Hey, they're instruments for running this crate! Why didn't we think of looking for them before?" he cried. "Probably because we don't know how to operate them," Garry replied. There was a half-circle steering wheel that pulled out, and the boys were sure what this was for. "Garry," Patch said happily, "the steering wheel--that may be all that we'll need! Since the ship is moving under its own power, all we have to do is turn her around and head back for the space station. We can keep circling it until one of the ships from the station intercepts us!" Garry tried the wheel. It was locked tight. "It's not that easy, Patch," he said. "First we've got to find how to unlock the wheel." "That ought not to be hard," Patch replied. "A button or switch...." They both began carefully examining the steering column and wheel, but did not find anything that would release the wheel. Then they went over the console panel very closely. They found switches and levers that could not be identified, but they decided to try them anyhow and see what they controlled. They got no result at first, but, when the fourth switch was thrown, the console lighted up and the ship began to throb with a new life. "That must have been one of the power levers," Garry said. "Look--the steering wheel is free! The power had to be on before it would unlock the wheel." "Garry!" Patch exclaimed, "we're on our way! We're on our way." "I hope my sense of direction is correct," Garry said, "because I can't read those directional meters. I think we'll be headed in the general direction of the station if we make a half turn. I remember the position of that brilliant nebula over there and also the planet Venus." Garry was beginning to turn the wheel slowly for their gradual turnabout in the sky when the smell of something burning issued from the console. "Hey, something seems to be shorting out," Patch said in alarm. "Look! There's smoke coming from the panel!" No sooner had he spoken than there was a small explosion inside the console, a strong odor of ozone filled the boys' nostrils, and all the lights went out. But what was worse, the steering wheel froze in Garry's hands and locked again. "Patch, we're ruined!" Garry groaned loudly. "I must have done something wrong!" Garry put his hands over his face in despair. "Patch, we were so close, so very close...." "It looks like something just doesn't want us to get out of this alive," Patch said bitterly. "We're jinxed, Garry!" "It'll do no good to start feeling sorry for ourselves again," Garry said. "Remember, we thought we were goners before. Something may turn up to save us--something maybe like a Good Samaritan flying around in a space ship just looking for wandering boys. But how many of those do you think you would find in all the millions of miles of space that surround us?" Suddenly Garry stood upright, staring intently straight out the forward port. "Speaking of Good Samaritans, Patch, that might not be so farfetched after all. Look out there, straight ahead. There's a light moving against the stars. It just might be a space ship!" "I see it," Patch said, with a trace of hope returning, "but it's most likely a Sputnik or Tiros or some other satellite." "I don't think so. Its movement isn't perfectly straight. I'm sure I just saw it change direction as if heading this way. Patch, if you've ever prayed, do it now. The next few minutes may decide whether we live or die out here in space!" 5. A "FLYING TIN CAN" The boys watched intently as the object neared them. Although it was still pretty far off, they knew that it was not a true celestial object, because they could determine already that it was shaped like nothing usually found in space. In fact, it looked remarkably like a tin can! It was an odd shape for a space ship, but the boys were sure that was what it was. "That's not like anything I've ever seen!" Garry said. "And I've seen all kinds of pictures of space ships in magazines and books." "It must be a special kind of ship," Patch suggested. "But just so it really is a space ship with living people in it, it can be shaped like a barbecue pit for all I care!" "Patch!" Garry said in a stricken voice. "What if it's from another planet and carries strange people? Maybe even _unfriendly_ passengers!" Patch's eyes shone like bright marbles. "Gee, you don't really think so, do you? I--I mean, how could it be possible? We've already explored Mars and Venus, and those planets aren't inhabited. How could anything possibly live on those big cold planets farther out?" "Maybe they are from another star," Garry said in a solemn tone. They would know pretty soon where the flying object was from, because it was still heading in their direction, and its passengers could not possibly miss seeing them. Garry and Patch were silent as the object drew steadily closer, each of them engrossed in his own thoughts. "It really does look like a tin can," Patch said. "A tin can with a big eye in front! But what a big tin can! It's big as one of those ancient dirigibles." "Patch, I can begin to make out some writing over the eye. See it?" "Yes. Just a moment. It's coming into focus. It says 'CAREFREE!' I don't know what it means, but it _sounds_ friendly." "That must be the name of it," Garry suggested. "No ship with a name like that could be carrying unfriendly passengers." "It also means that there must be earthmen aboard, because it's an earth word." "I don't think we have anything to worry about, Patch," Garry said confidently. "Now they're turning around," Patch said. "They--they're pulling even with us. I guess they'll anchor to us with magnetic grapples." Carefully, the _Carefree_ edged closer so that it could latch on. The big circular space ship dwarfed the tiny taxi so greatly that it seemed like David and Goliath. Garry and Patch heard a soft bump as the _Carefree_ coupled onto the side of their craft on which the door was located. Garry knew now that the ships were joined as one. Garry looked at Patch, and Patch looked at Garry. They knew all they had to do now was open the air locks between the ships. But they hesitated as if there were still some doubt in their minds as to the friendliness of those in the other space ship. There came a rap on their air-lock door. Once again Garry looked at Patch, and Patch looked at Garry. Then, after another few moments of hesitation, Garry shrugged and clicked over to the door. "We may as well open up," he said. "Whether or not they're friendly, they've certainly got the upper hand." Garry pressed the button that controlled the outer door of the air lock. Then he pressed another that opened the inner door. Garry and Patch looked through the double air locks into the face of a man who wore a small, neat white beard. He appeared to be in his early sixties, and he was clinging to a webbing of ropes that completely covered the walls of a giant tube or tunnel. "Hello," the man said, with a smile. "Hello," Garry and Patch replied together. And they smiled too, because they were very glad that it was an earthman who faced them. "I must say I didn't expect to find a couple of boys alone in here," the man went on. "What's happened to the adults with you? You didn't heave them out the waste hatch, did you?" The elderly man laughed. "Uh, no, Sir," Garry replied with hesitation. "We've been by ourselves ever since this flier left the Von Braun Space Station. It's a pretty long story, Sir." "The name is Captain Eaton, boys." The man winked at them, showing his white teeth in another smile. "Oh, I'm not really a space captain. I wouldn't deceive you. The _Carefree_ is a private ship, and the men call me 'Captain' because I'm the owner." Captain Eaton's dark, alert eyes flickered over the interior of the flier. "I thought whoever was in this ship must be in some sort of trouble," he said, "because of your erratic flight. That's why we latched onto you, to see if we could be of some help." "We _do_ need help, Captain," Patch said earnestly. "We don't know the first thing about running this thing. We had just about given ourselves up for lost." "How in the world did you get into such a spot as this?" Captain Eaton asked. "Well, Sir," Garry explained, lowering his eyes, "you see, we're stowaways, although we've been able to escape being caught all this time. We didn't _mean_ to be stowaways, Captain. We were helping an officer aboard the _Orion_ with his gear, and the rocket blasted off before we could get out." "Say, I'll bet your parents are worried to death about you," Captain Eaton said. "No, Sir," Patch answered. "You see, we're orphans, and we lived in an orphanage back in the United States." "I see," the elderly man replied, stroking his short, snowy beard. Then suddenly he grinned broadly. "Well, fellows, how would you like to be rescued?" "We're all for it!" Garry answered, and Patch nodded his head vigorously. "Come aboard then. The _Carefree_ welcomes you!" "What about the flier?" Garry asked. "We don't want to be charged with stealing a space craft." "I'll have Ben Dawes come aboard and set her adrift toward the satellite so that she can be picked up easily," the captain said. "I think we blew something out when we tried to start her," Patch said. "Ben's a genius," Captain Eaton replied. "He'll get her to running, no matter what's wrong with her." With this taken care of, the boys were anxious to board the _Carefree_ and see if her interior were as strange and unusual looking as her outer hull. They removed their bulky magnetic shoes and entered the air lock of the _Carefree_. Captain Eaton first explained the purpose of the webbing that lined the walls of the tube. "As you boys saw us move in, you probably know that this is the rear of the ship, and this tunnel is in the center. It goes the full length of our 'tin can' and comes out front into the flight deck. We have to leave and enter the ship through the rear end of this tube. Understand?" "Yes, Sir," the boys answered together. "The outer round surface of our 'tin can' revolves around this center tube as though it were a wheel around an axis," the captain went on. "By so doing, an artificial gravity is induced along the inside rim of the 'can.'" Captain Eaton frowned. "Am I getting too deep for you?" "I don't think so, Sir," Garry replied. "The gravity you are talking about is the result of centrifugal action--the same action that makes a ball swing out on the end of a string when a person swings it around his head. It's the same kind of artificial gravity they use on the manned space stations." "You're pretty sharp, son. I like a boy who doesn't think that facts belong only in a schoolroom." "I've always been very interested in space, Sir," Garry said. "I'll bet I'd surprise you with all I know about it." "I'm sure you would," Captain Eaton admitted. "Say, I don't even know your names. I've told you mine. Now let's have yours." "I'm Garry Coleman," Garry answered, "and this is my best friend, Patch Foster." Since the center tube of the _Carefree_ was not affected by the centrifugal force of the rotating "tin can," its gravity was zero. For that reason the webbing was used to pull oneself along with and not really for the purposes of climbing and descending. Captain Eaton turned around on the webbing so that he could lead the way along the tunnel into the living quarters of the _Carefree_. His slim, agile legs swung free in the zero gravity as he made the turn. Glossy black space boots covered his feet. The captain showed Garry where to pull a lever which closed a series of air-lock doors between the _Carefree_ and the taxi. The ship's master and the boys pulled themselves along the tunnel. Then Captain Eaton stopped and said, "Hold on tightly, fellows. We're going round and round for a few turns." He pushed a lever beneath the webbing, and Garry felt the tube begin to revolve slowly. "Hey, what's happening?" Patch called out. "I had to set the tunnel in rotation so that it could catch up with the rest of the ship, which is always turning. As soon as you've become used to the spinning, we'll go into the ship." When the boys said they thought they could navigate, the captain pointed to an open hatch that had appeared in the wall near them. "We'll turn around and back down these stairs," the skipper said. "As we descend, the gravity will become stronger, so that by the time we're at the bottom we'll be nearly at our earth weights." Garry and Patch followed their new friend down the stairs, moving carefully and holding onto the railing, for they still felt giddy from the rotation of the central tube. By the time they were at the bottom, their heads had begun to clear. That is, they _thought_ their heads had begun to clear. But no sooner had they gotten this impression than they became giddy all over again at the sight that met their eyes. For it was just as if they had entered a tropical paradise! There were real flowers in bloom all about, and aquariums full of live fishes were set into the surrounding walls. The boys were too surprised to say anything. All they could do was just stare and stare in disbelief. 6. A _CAREFREE_ WORLD "How do you like my garden, fellows?" Captain Eaton asked. "It helps keep me from getting homesick. I used to have a most luxuriant garden back on earth." "I can't believe it!" Garry burst out. "It's just as if we were outdoors on a summer day, it's so real." "There's a goldfish pond, Garry," Patch said, "with lily pads floating on top and a bench beside it." "I never saw so many kinds of flowers," Garry said, "and shrubs too." "The flowers and shrubs serve a double purpose," Captain Eaton explained. "They not only provide homelike pleasure to me and my friends, but they also help keep the air in the _Carefree_ supplied with oxygen." "I remember," Garry replied. "Plants in light breathe exactly opposite from the way we do. They breathe in carbon dioxide and breathe out oxygen." Patch stooped down, examining the roots of a shrub. "Hey, the roots aren't growing in soil! How can they live?" "The plants grow in richly fertilized liquid," the captain answered. "In that way, they can be placed much closer together. Besides, some of the water making up the fertilized liquid comes from waste products within the ship. There are other reasons too." Captain Eaton led the way along the aisle that ran beside the colorfully lighted aquariums. He stopped in front of a twenty-gallon tank which was in the process of being cleaned by two men. One of them was very tall, over six and a half feet. He was very thin and appeared to be in his late fifties. But the oddest thing about him, which made Garry and Patch stare at him in surprise, was the fact that he was in the full dress of a butler, complete with newly starched white shirt and neatly pressed coat and trousers! Although he was holding a bucket that was catching water from a draining aquarium, his clothing wasn't in the least mussed. Captain Eaton saw the boys staring at the tall gentleman and said, "Boys, I want you to meet Mr. Klecker, the Eaton family butler for many years. When I decided to set out into space on my permanent cruise, he would not think of being left behind. Klecker, this is Garry and this is Patch. They will be our guests for awhile." Mr. Klecker looked at them with heavy-lidded eyes. Then, bowing, he said in a deep stately voice, "Pleased, young gentlemen." "Glad to know you, Mr. Klecker," Garry said. "Me too," Patch added. The other person attending to the fish tank was a young man. He rose from a squatting position and smiled at the boys. He had crew-cut black hair and the kind of happy features which indicate a friendly nature. He wiped his damp hands on his trousers and offered a palm to Garry first, then to Patch. "Hi, boys. I'm Ben Dawes. Glad to have you aboard," he said. "It sure is a surprise meeting fellows as young as yourselves out here in space." "It'll probably be more of a surprise, Ben, to know that they are alone," the captain said. "Not really!" Ben said. "Say, I'll bet you two have a long story explaining that!" "We do," Garry answered, "and we'll tell you when we have lots of time." "Ben is my right-hand man, whom I wouldn't part with for all the millions I own," Captain Eaton said proudly. "He could build a space ship out of a safety pin if he had to. He had a big hand in designing the _Carefree_, and he knows every bolt and rivet in her." It was interesting to Garry to hear that the captain was a millionaire. That probably explained how he could afford to take such a leisurely cruise through space in something akin to a flying palace. "While Klecker and Ben are changing the water in this aquarium," Captain Eaton said, "how would you like to meet the rest of my friends?" "We would, Sir," Garry replied, "but are you sure you don't have things to do?" It was hard for Garry to believe that as important a person as a millionaire would be willing to devote so much time to a couple of orphans who were lost in space. "Here my time is my own," Captain Eaton said. "Back home there were hundreds of little details that always had to be attended to, and as I grew older the grind began to keep me in a state of tension and boredom. That's when I made up my mind that I would spend the rest of my life the way that I wanted to--without constant interruption and without ever hurrying. I sold everything I owned and came into space. That was four years ago." "Why are you so interested in space, Captain?" Garry asked. "In my early days I had a very keen interest in space travel. I became a space cadet, but after only four months' service I was hurt, and my injury was such that I had to give up any thoughts of a future in the Space Service. But my keen interest in space stayed with me through the years, and I never gave up hope of returning to the spaceways. So, you see, my hope was realized, and here I am as carefree as the name of my ship." "Then you never plan to return to earth, Captain Eaton, ever?" Garry asked. "No, I don't think so. In the first place, the _Carefree_ was built in space and could not stand the atmospheric friction of an earth return. Of course, I could get back if I really wanted to. But I don't believe I want to. My simple life out here is very satisfying. I never had any children, and my wife is now dead. No, no close relatives. It takes a little money to survive out here and pay my friends aboard ship, but it does not take too much. Yes, this is the good life, and it is enough for me." As Captain Eaton paced the boys by a couple of steps, Garry had to marvel at the youthful stride of their host. His body was as lean and spare as a man half his age, and Garry was sure he must have kept himself in good condition all his life. As the trio left the garden and moved into the next section, Garry and Patch heard a fine tenor voice singing a lusty aria from an opera. A quick study of their surroundings told Garry that they were in the galley. As the fragrance of good food reached the boys' noses, they suddenly remembered how hungry they were. They hadn't eaten since they left the orphanage! "That's Gino you hear," Captain Eaton explained. The boys presently saw a short, fat little Italian throwing a huge, flat wad of dough into the air. He stopped when he saw the boys and grinned so widely that his eyes disappeared and his mouth seemed as broad as that of a jack-o'-lantern. Captain Eaton exchanged names so that everyone quickly knew everyone else. Gino was the ship's cook, and his full name was Gino Spondini. Gino kept tossing the dough into the air, and each time he tossed it up it became thinner and bigger. "You _bambini_ chose a good day to come to the _Carefree_," Gino said. "This is a special day for good food, only once every two weeks, eh, Captain?" Captain Eaton nodded. "Unfortunately, there isn't a grocery store just around the corner, and so we fill our food room and deep freeze only a few times a year from the commissary satellite which supplies food to all the manned satellites around earth. But when we do have an exceptionally good meal, we enjoy it even more." "I don't know what you're making, Gino," Garry said, "but I'm hungry enough to eat it raw." Gino looked shocked. "You don't know pizza when you see it? Where have you been all your life, _bambino_?" "Gino makes the best pizza pie in the world--or should I say the best in the solar system?" the captain said. "Now, boys, shall we move on and meet the others?" They left the galley and proceeded on to the next section within the _Carefree_, leaving Gino singing another operatic air. The boys wondered if they could hold out until lunch time. "Up ahead of us," Captain Eaton said presently, after passing through a short hallway, "is the dormitory. Since the dorm is used solely for sleeping, we made it small so that we could give more area over to the other parts of the
never come near, it was quite useless to keep one's eyes on the ruts of roads and the gravel of paths, and consequently almost useless to go out, or to exist; until one day I learnt that a certain old lawyer, in a certain field, had actually dug up Roman antiquities.... I don't know whether I ever saw them with corporeal eyes, but certainly with those of the spirit; and I was lent a drawing of one of them, a gold armlet, of which I insisted on having a copy made, and sticking it up in my room.... It does but little honour to our greatest living philosopher that he, whom children will bless for free permission to bruise, burn, and cut their bodies, and empty the sugar-bowl and jam-pot, should wish to deprive the coming generation of all historical knowledge, of so much joy therefore, and, let me add, of so much education. For do not tell me that it is not education, and of the best, to enable a child to feel the passion and poetry of life; to live, while it trudges along the dull familiar streets, in company with dull, familiar, and often stolidly incurious grown-up folk, in that terrible, magnificent past, in dungeons and palaces, loving and worshipping Joan of Arc, execrating Bloody Mary, dreaming strange impossible possibilities of what we would have said and done for Marie Antoinette--said to her, _her_ actually coming towards us, by some stroke of magic, in that advancing carriage! There is enough in afterlife, God knows, to teach us _not to be heroic_; 'tis just as well that, as children, we learn a lingering liking for the quality; 'tis as important, perhaps, as learning that our tissues consume carbon, if they do so. I can speak very fervently of the enormous value for happiness of such an historical habit of mind. Such a habit transcends altogether, in its power of filling one's life, the merely artistic and literary habit. For, after all, painting, architecture, music, poetry, are things which touch us in a very intermittent way. I would compare this historic habit rather to the capacity of deriving pleasure from nature, not merely through the eye, but through all the senses; and largely, doubtless, through those obscure perceptions which make certain kinds of weather, air, &c., an actual tonic, nay food, for the body. To this alone would I place my _historical habit_ in the second rank. For, as the sensitiveness to nature means supplementing our physical life by the life of the air and the sun, the clouds and waters, so does this historic habit mean supplementing our present life by a life in the past; a life larger, richer than our own, multiplying our emotions by those of the dead.... I am no longer speaking of our passions for Joan of Arc and Marie Antoinette, which disappear with our childhood; I am speaking of a peculiar sense, ineffable, indescribable, but which every one knows again who has once had it, and which to many of us has grown into a cherished habit--the sense of being companioned by the past, of being in a place warmed for our living by the lives of others. To me, as I started with saying, the reverse of this is almost painful; and I know few things more odious than the chilly, draughty emptiness of a place without a history. For this reason America, save what may remain of Hawthorne's New England and Irving's New York, never tempts my vagabond fancy. Nature can scarcely afford beauty wherewith to compensate for living in block-tin shanties or brand new palaces. How different if we find ourselves in some city, nay village, rendered habitable for our soul by the previous dwelling therein of others, of souls! Here the streets are never empty; and, surrounded by that faceless crowd of ghosts, one feels a right to walk about, being invited by them, instead of rushing along on one's errands among a throng of other wretched living creatures who are blocked by us and block us in their turn. How convey this sense? I do not mean that if I walk through old Paris or through Rome my thoughts revolve on Louis XI. or Julius Cæsar. Nothing could be further from the fact. Indeed the charm of the thing is that one feels oneself accompanied not by this or that magnifico of the past (whom of course one would never have been introduced to), but by a crowd of nameless creatures; the daily life, common joy, suffering, heroism of the past. Nay, there is something more subtle than this: the whole place (how shall I explain it?) becomes a sort of living something. Thus, when I hurry (for one must needs hurry through Venetian narrowness) between the pink and lilac houses, with faded shutters and here and there a shred of tracery; now turning a sharp corner before the locksmith's or the chestnut-roaster's; now hearing my steps lonely between high walls broken by a Gothic doorway; now crossing some smooth-paved little square with its sculptured well and balconied palaces, I feel, I say, walking day after day through these streets, that I am in contact with a whole living, breathing thing, full of habits of life, of suppressed words; a sort of odd, mysterious, mythical, but very real creature; as if, in the dark, I stretched out my hand and met something (but without any fear), something absolutely indefinable in shape and kind, but warm, alive. This changes solitude in unknown places into the reverse of solitude and strangeness. I remember walking thus along the bastions under the bishop's palace at Laon, the great stone cows peering down from the belfry above, with a sense of inexpressible familiarity and peace. And, strange to say, this historic habit makes us familiar also with places where we have never been. How well, for instance, do I not know Dinant and Bouvines, rival cities on the Meuse (topography and detail equally fantastic); and how I sometimes long, as with homesickness, for a scramble among the stones and grass and chandelier-like asphodels of Agrigentum, Veii, Collatium! Why, to one minded like myself, a map, and even the names of stations in a time-table, are full of possible delight. And sometimes it rises to rapture. This time, eight years ago, I was fretting my soul away, ill, exiled away from home, forbidden all work, in the south of Spain. At Granada for three dreary weeks it rained without ceasing, till the hill of the Alhambra became filled with the babbling of streams, and the town was almost cut off by a sea of mud. Between the showers one rushed up into the damp gardens of the Generalife, or into the Alhambra, to be imprisoned for hours in its desolate halls, while the rain splashed down into the courts. My sitting-room had five doors, four of glass; and the snow lay thick on the mountains. My few books had been read long ago; there remained to spell through a Spanish tome on the rebellion of the Alpujarras, whose Moorish leader, having committed every crime, finally went to heaven for spitting on the Koran on his death-bed. Letters from home were perpetually lost, or took a week to come. It seemed as if the world had quite unlearned every single trick that had ever given me pleasure. Yet, in these dreary weeks, there was one happy morning. It was the anniversary, worse luck to it, of the Conquest of Granada from the Moors. We got seats in the chapel of the Catholic kings, and watched a gentleman in a high hat (which he kept on in church) and swallow tails, carry the banner of Castile and Aragon, in the presence of the archbishop and chapter, some mediæval pages, two trumpeters with pigtails, and an array of soldiers. A paltry ceremony enough. But before it began, and while mass was still going on, there came to me for a few brief moments that happiness unknown for so many, many months, that beloved historic emotion. My eyes were wandering round the chapel, up the sheaves of the pilasters to the gilded spandrils, round the altars covered with gibbering sculpture, and down again among the crowd kneeling on the matted floor--women in veils, men with scarlet cloak-lining over the shoulder, here and there the shaven head and pigtail of the bull-ring. In the middle of it all, on their marble beds, lay the effigies of Ferdinand and Isabella, with folded hands and rigid feet, four crimson banners of the Moors overhead. The crowd was pouring in from the cathedral, and bevies of priests, and scarlet choir-boys led by their fiddler. The organ, above the chants, was running through vague mazes. I felt it approaching and stealing over me, that curious emotion felt before in such different places: walking up and down, one day, in the church of Lamballe in Brittany; seated, another time, in the porch at Ely. And then it possessed me completely, raising one into a sort of beatitude. This kind of rapture is not easy to describe. No rare feeling is. But I would warn you from thinking that in such solemn moments there sweeps across the brain a paltry pageant, a Lord Mayor's Show of bygone things, like the cavalcades of future heroes who descend from frescoed or sculptured wall at the bidding of Ariosto's wizards and Spenser's fairies. This is something infinitely more potent and subtle; and like all strong intellectual emotions, it is compounded of many and various elements, and has its origin far down in mysterious depths of our nature; and it arises overwhelmingly from many springs, filling us with the throb of vague passions welling from our most vital parts. There is in it no possession of any definite portion of bygone times; but a yearning expectancy, a sense of the near presence, as it were, of the past; or, rather, of a sudden capacity in ourselves of apprehending the past which looms all round. For a few moments thus, in that chapel before the tombs of the Catholic kings; in the churches of Bruges and Innsbruck at the same time (for such emotion gives strange possibilities of simultaneous presence in various places); with the gold pomegranate flower of the badges, and the crimson tassels of the Moorish standards before my eyes; also the iron knights who watch round Maximilian's grave--for a moment while the priests were chanting and the organs quavering, the life of to-day seemed to reel and vanish, and my mind to be swept along the dark and gleaming whirlpools of the past.... III Catholic kings, Moorish banners, wrought-iron statues of paladins; these are great things, and not at all what I had intended to speak of when I set out to explain why old houses, which give my Yorkshire friend the creeps, seem to my feelings so far more peaceful and familiar. Yes, it is just because the past is somehow more companionable, warmer, more full of flavour, than the present, that I love all old houses; but best of all such as are solitary in the country, isolated both from new surroundings, and from such alterations as contact with the world's hurry almost always brings. It certainly is no question of beauty. The houses along Chelsea embankment are more beautiful, and some of them a great deal more picturesque than that Worcestershire rectory to which I always long to return: the long brick house on its terraced river-bank, the overladen plum-trees on one side, and the funereally prosperous churchyard yews on the other; and with corridors and staircases hung with stained, frameless Bolognese nakedness, Judgments of Paris, Venuses, Carità Romanas, shipped over cheap by some bear-leading parson-tutor of the eighteenth century. Nor are they architectural, those brick and timber cottages all round, sinking (one might think) into the rich, damp soil. But they have a mellowness corresponding to that of the warm, wet, fruitful land, and due to the untroubled, warm brooding over by the past. And what is architecture to that? As to these Italian ones, which my soul loveth most, they have even less of what you would call beauty; at most such grace of projecting window-grating or buttressed side as the South gives its buildings; and such colour, or rather discolouring, as a comparatively small number of years will bring. It kept revolving in my mind, this question of old houses and their charm, as I was sitting waiting for a tram one afternoon, in the church-porch of Pieve a Ripoli, a hamlet about two miles outside the south-east gate of Florence. That church porch is like the baldacchino over certain Roman high altars, or, more humbly, like a very large fourpost bedstead. On the one hand was a hillside of purple and brown scrub and dark cypresses fringed against the moist, moving grey sky; on the other, some old, bare, mulberry-trees, a hedge of russet sloe, closing in wintry fields; and, more particularly, next the porch, an insignificant house, with blistered green shutters at irregular intervals in the stained whitewash, a big green door, and a little coat-of-arms--the three Strozzi half-moons--clapped on to the sharp corner. I sat there, among the tombstones of the porch, and wondered why I loved this house: and why it would remain, as I knew it must, a landmark in my memory. Yes, the charm must lie in the knowledge of the many creatures who have lived in this house, the many things that have been done and felt. The creatures who have lived here, the things which have been felt and done.... But those things felt and done, were they not mainly trivial, base; at best nowise uncommon, and such as must be going on in every new house all around? People worked and shirked their work, endured, fretted, suffered somewhat, and amused themselves a little; were loving, unkind, neglected and neglectful, and died, some too soon, some too late. That is human life, and as such doubtless important. But all that goes on to-day just the same; and there is no reason why that former life should have been more interesting than that these people, Argenta Cavallesi and Vincenzio Grazzini, buried at my feet, should have had bigger or better made souls and bodies than I or my friends. Indeed, in sundry ways, and owing to the narrowness of life and thought, the calmer acceptance of coarse or cruel things, I incline to think that they were less interesting, those men and women of the past, whose rustling dresses fill old houses with fantastic sounds. They had, some few of them, their great art, great aims, feelings, struggles; but the majority were of the earth, and intolerably earthy. 'Tis their clothes' ghosts that haunt us, not their own. So why should the past be charming? Perhaps merely because of its being the one free place for our imagination. For, as to the future, it is either empty or filled only with the cast shadows of ourselves and our various machineries. The past is the unreal and the yet visible; it has the fascination of the distant hills, the valleys seen from above; the unreal, but the unreal whose unreality, unlike that of the unreal things with which we cram the present, can never be forced on us. _There is more behind; there may be anything._ This sense which makes us in love with all intricacies of things and feelings, roads which turn, views behind views, trees behind trees, makes the past so rich in possibilities.... An ordinary looking priest passes by, rings at the door of the presbytery, and enters. Those who lived there, in that old stained house with the Strozzi escutcheon, opposite the five bare mulberry-trees, were doubtless as like as may be to this man who lives there in the present. Quite true; and yet there creeps up the sense that _they_ lived in the past. For there is no end to the deceits of the past; we protest that we know it is cozening us, and it continues to cozen us just as much. Reading over Browning's _Galuppi_ lately, it struck me that this dead world of vanity was no more charming or poetical than the one we live in, when it also was alive; and that those ladies, Mrs. X., Countess Y., and Lady Z., of whose _toilettes_ at last night's ball that old gossip P---- had been giving us details throughout dinner, will in their turn, if any one care, be just as charming, as dainty, and elegiac as those other women who sat by while Galuppi "played toccatas stately at the clavichord." Their dresses, should they hang for a century or so, will emit a perfume as frail, and sad, and heady; their wardrobe filled with such dust as makes tears come into one's eyes, from no mechanical reason. "Was a lady _such_ a lady?" They will say that of ours also. And, in recognising this, we recognise how trumpery, flat, stale and unprofitable were those ladies of the past. It is not they who make the past charming, but the past that makes them. Time has wonderful cosmetics for its favoured ones; and if it brings white hairs and wrinkles to the realities, how much does it not heighten the bloom, brighten the eyes and hair of those who survive in our imagination! And thus, somewhat irrelevantly, concludes my chapter in praise of old houses. THE LIE OF THE LAND NOTES ABOUT LANDSCAPES I I want to talk about the something which makes the real, individual landscape--the landscape one actually sees with the eyes of the body and the eyes of the spirit--the _landscape you cannot describe_. That is the drawback of my subject--that it just happens to elude all literary treatment, and yet it must be treated. There is not even a single word or phrase to label it, and I have had to call it, in sheer despair, _the lie of the land_: it is an unnamed mystery into which various things enter, and I feel as if I ought to explain myself by dumb show. It will serve at any rate as an object-lesson in the extreme one-sidedness of language and a protest against human silence about the things it likes best. Of outdoor things words can of course tell us some important points: colour, for instance, and light, and somewhat of their gradations and relations. And an adjective, a metaphor, may evoke an entire atmospheric effect, paint us a sunset or a star-lit night. But the far subtler and more individual relations of visible line defy expression: no poet or prose writer can give you the tilt of a roof, the undulation of a field, the bend of a road. Yet these are the things in landscape which constitute its individuality and which reach home to our feelings. For colour and light are variable--nay, more, they are relative. The same tract will be green in connection with one sort of sky, blue with another, and yellow with a third. We may be disappointed when the woods, which we had seen as vague, moss-like blue before the sun had overtopped the hills, become at midday a mere vast lettuce-bed. We should be much more than disappointed, we should doubt of our senses if we found on going to our window that it looked down upon outlines of hills, upon precipices, ledges, knolls, or flat expanses, different from those we had seen the previous day or the previous year. Thus the unvarying items of a landscape happen to be those for which precise words cannot be found. Briefly, we praise colour, but we actually _live_ in the indescribable thing which I must call the _lie of the land_. The lie of the land means walking or climbing, shelter or bleakness; it means the corner where we dread a boring neighbour, the bend round which we have watched some one depart, the stretch of road which seemed to lead us away out of captivity. Yes, _lie of the land_ is what has mattered to us since we were children, to our fathers and remotest ancestors; and its perception, the instinctive preference for one kind rather than another, is among the obscure things inherited with our blood, and making up the stuff of our souls. For how else explain the strange powers which different shapes of the earth's surface have over different individuals; the sudden pleasure, as of the sight of an old friend, the pang of pathos which we may all receive in a scene which is new, without memories, and so unlike everything familiar as to be almost without associations? The _lie of the land_ has therefore an importance in art, or if it have not, ought to have, quite independent of pleasantness of line or of anything merely visual. An immense charm consists in the fact that the mind can walk about in a landscape. The delight at the beauty which is seen is heightened by the anticipation of further unseen beauty; by the sense of exploring the unknown; and to our present pleasure before a painted landscape is added the pleasure we have been storing up during years of intercourse, if I may use this word, with so many real ones. II For there is such a thing as intercourse with fields and trees and skies, with the windings of road and water and hedge, in our everyday, ordinary life. And a terrible thing for us all if there were not; if our lives were not full of such various commerce, of pleasure, curiosity, and gratitude, of kindly introduction of friend by friend, quite apart from the commerce with other human beings. Indeed, one reason why the modern rectangular town (built at one go for the convenience of running omnibuses and suppressing riots) fills our soul with bitterness and dryness, is surely that this ill-conditioned convenient thing can give us only its own poor, paltry presence, introducing our eye and fancy neither to further details of itself, nor to other places and people, past or distant. Words can just barely indicate the charm of this _other place other time_ enriching of the present impression. Words cannot in the least, I think, render that other suggestion contained in _The Lie of the Land_, the suggestion of the possibility of a delightful walk. What walks have we not taken, leaving sacred personages and profane, not to speak of allegoric ones, far behind in the backgrounds of the old Tuscans, Umbrians, and Venetians! Up Benozzo's hillside woods of cypress and pine, smelling of myrrh and sweet-briar, over Perugino's green rising grounds, towards those slender, scant-leaved trees, straight-stemmed acacias and elms, by the water in the cool, blue evening valley. Best of all, have not Giorgione and Titian, Palma and Bonifazio, and the dear imitative people labelled _Venetian school_, led us between the hedges russet already with the ripening of the season and hour into those fields where the sheep are nibbling, under the twilight of the big brown trees, to where some pale blue alp closes in the slopes and the valleys? III It is a pity that the landscape painters of our day--I mean those French or French taught, whose methods are really new--tend to neglect _The Lie of the Land_. Some of them, I fear, deliberately avoid it as old-fashioned--what they call obvious--as interfering with their aim of interesting by the mere power of vision and skill in laying on the paint. Be this as it may, their innovations inevitably lead them away from all research of what we may call _topographical_ charm, for what they have added to art is the perfection of very changeable conditions of light and atmosphere, of extremely fleeting accidents of colour. One would indeed be glad to open one's window on the fairyland of iridescent misty capes, of vibrating skies and sparkling seas of Monsieur Claude Monet; still more to stand at the close of an autumn day watching the light fogs rise along the fields, mingling with delicate pinkish mist of the bare poplar rows against the green of the first sprouts of corn. But I am not sure that the straight line of sea and shore would be interesting at any other moment of the day; and the poplar rows and cornfields would very likely be drearily dull until sunset. The moment, like Faust's second of perfect bliss, is such as should be made immortal, but the place one would rather not see again. Yet Monsieur Monet is the one of his school who shows most care for the scene he is painting. The others, even the great ones--men like Pissarro and Sisley, who have shown us so many delightful things in the details of even the dull French foliage, even the dull midday sky--the other _modern ones_ make one long to pull up their umbrella and easel and carry them on--not very far surely--to some spot where the road made a bend, the embankment had a gap, the water a swirl; for we would not be so old-fashioned as to request that the country might have a few undulations.... Of course it was very dull of our ancestors--particularly of Clive Newcome's day--always to paint a panorama with whole ranges of hills, miles of river, and as many cities as possible; and even our pleasure in Turner's large landscapes is spoilt by their being the sort of thing people would drive for miles or climb for hours to enjoy, what our grandfathers in post-chaises called a _noble fine prospect_. All that had to be got rid of, like the contemporaneous literary descriptions: "A smiling valley proceeded from south-east to north-west; an amphitheatre of cliffs bounding it on the right hand; while to the left a magnificent waterfall leapt from a rock three hundred feet in height and expanded into a noble natural basin of granite some fifty yards in diameter," &c. &c. The British classics, thus busy with compass, measuring-rod and level, thus anxious to enable the reader to reconstruct their landscape on paste-board, had no time of course to notice trifling matters: how, for instance, The woods are round us, heaped and dim; From slab to slab how it slips and springs The thread of water, single and slim, Through the ravage some torrent brings. Nor could the panoramic painter of the earlier nineteenth century pay much attention to mere alternations of light while absorbed in his great "Distant View of Jerusalem and Madagascar"; indeed, he could afford to move off only when it began to rain very hard. IV The impressionist painters represent the reaction against this dignified and also more stolid school of landscape; they have seen, or are still seeing, all the things which other men did not see. And here I may remark that one of the most important items of this seeing is exactly the fact that in many cases we can _see_ only very little. The impressionists have been scoffed at for painting rocks which might be chimney-stacks, and flowering hedges which might be foaming brooks; plains also which might be hills, and _vice versâ_, and described as wretches, disrespectful to natural objects, which, we are told, reveal new beauties at every glance. But is it more respectful to natural objects to put a drawing-screen behind a willow-bush and copy its minutest detail of branch and trunk, than to paint that same willow, a mere mist of glorious orange, as we see it flame against the hillside confusion of mauve, and russet and pinkish sereness? I am glad to have brought in that word _confusion_: the modern school of landscape has done a great and pious thing in reinstating the complexity, the mystery, the confusion of Nature's effects; Nature, which differs from the paltry work of man just in this, that she does not thin out, make clear and symmetrical for the easier appreciation of foolish persons, but packs effect upon effect, in space even as in time, one close upon the other, leaf upon leaf, branch upon branch, tree upon tree, colour upon colour, a mystery of beauty wrapped in beauty, without the faintest concern whether it would not be better to say "this is really a river," or, "that is really a tree." "But," answer the critics with much superiority, "art should not be the mere copying of Nature; surely there is already enough of Nature herself; art should be the expression of man's delight in Nature's shows." Well, Nature shows a great many things which are not unchanging and not by any means unperplexing; she shows them at least to those who will see, see what is really there to be seen; and she will show them, thanks to our brave impressionists, to all men henceforth who have eyes and a heart. And here comes our debt to these great painters: what a number of effects, modest and exquisite, or bizarre and magnificent, they will have taught us to look out for; what beauty and poetry in humdrum scenery, what perfect loveliness even among sordidness and squalor: tints as of dove's breasts in city mud, enamel splendours in heaps of furnace refuse, mysterious magnificence, visions of Venice at night, of Eblis palace, of I know not what, in wet gaslit nights, in looming lit-up factories. Nay, leaving that alone, since 'tis better, perhaps, that we should not enjoy anything connected with grime and misery and ugliness--how much have not these men added to the delight of our walks and rides; revealing to us, among other things, the supreme beauty of winter colouring, the harmony of purple, blue, slate, brown, pink, and russet, of tints and compounds of tints without a name, of bare hedgerows and leafless trees, sere grass and mist-veiled waters; compared with which spring is but raw, summer dull, and autumn positively ostentatious in her gala suit of tawny and yellow. Perhaps, indeed, these modern painters have done more for us by the beauty they have taught us to see in Nature than by the beauty they have actually put before us in their pictures; if I except some winter landscapes of Monet's and the wonderful water-colours of Mr. Brabazon, whose exquisite sense of form and knowledge of drawing have enabled him, in rapidest sketches of rapidly passing effects, to indicate the structure of hills and valleys, the shape of clouds, in the mere wash of colour, even as Nature indicates them herself. With such exceptions as these, and the beautiful mysteries of Mr. Whistler, there is undoubtedly, in recent landscape, a preoccupation of technical methods and an indifference to choice of subject, above all, a degree of insistence on what is _actually seen_ which leads one to suspect that the impressionists represent rather a necessary phase in the art, than a definite achievement, in the same manner as the Renaissance painters who gave themselves up to the study of perspective and anatomy. This terrible over-importance of the act of vision is doubtless the preparation for a new kind of landscape, which will employ these arduously acquired facts of colour and light, this restlessly renovated technique, in the service of a new kind of sentiment and imagination, differing from that of previous ages even as the sentiment and imagination of Browning differs from that of his great predecessors. But it is probably necessary that the world at large, as well as the artists, should be familiarised with the new facts, the new methods of impressionism, before such facts and methods can find their significance and achievement; even as in the Renaissance people had to recognise the realities of perspective and anatomy before they could enjoy an art which attained beauty through this means; it would have been no use showing Sixtine chapels to the contemporaries of Giotto. There is at present a certain lack of enjoyable quality, a lack of soul appealing to soul, in the new school of landscape. But where there is a faithful, reverent eye, a subtle hand, a soul cannot be far round the corner. And we may hope that, if we be as sincere and willing as themselves, our Pollaiolos and Mantegnas of the impressionist school, discoverers of new subtleties of colour and light, will be duly succeeded by modern Michelangelos and Titians, who will receive all the science ready for use, and bid it fetch and carry and build new wonderful things for the pleasure of their soul and of ours. V And mentioning Titian, brings to my memory a remark once made to me on one of those washed away, rubbly hills, cypresses and pines holding the earth together, which the old Tuscans drew so very often. The remark, namely, that some of the charm of the old masters' landscapes is due to the very reverse of what sometimes worries one in modern work, to the notion which these backgrounds give at first--bits of valley, outlines of hills, distant views of towered villages, of having been done without trouble, almost from memory, till you discover that your Titian has modelled his blue valley into delicate blue ridges; and your Piero della Francesca indicated the precise structure of his pale, bony mountains. Add to this, to the old men's credit, that, as I said, they knew _the lie of the land_, they gave us landscapes in which our fancy, our memories, could walk. How large a share such fancy and such memories have in the life of art, people can scarcely realise. Nay, such is the habit of thinking of the picture, statue, or poem, as a complete and vital thing apart from the mind which perceives it, that the expression _life of art_ is sure to be interpreted as life of various schools of art: thus, the life of art developed from the type of Phidias to that of Praxiteles, and so forth. But in the broader, truer sense, the life of all art goes on in the mind and heart, not merely of those who make the work, but of those who see and read it. Nay, is not _the_ work, the real one, a certain particular state of feeling, a pattern woven of new perceptions and impressions and of old memories and feelings, which the picture, the statue or poem, awakens, different in each different individual? 'Tis a thought perhaps annoying to those who have slaved seven years over a particular outline of muscles, a particular colour of grass, or the cadence of a particular sentence. What! all this to be refused finality, to be disintegrated by the feelings and fancies of the man who looks at the picture, or reads the book, heaven knows how carelessly besides? Well, if not disintegrated, would you prefer it to be unassimilated? Do you wish your picture, statue or poem to remain whole as you made it? Place it permanently in front of a mirror; consign it to the memory of a parrot; or, if you are musician, sing your song, expression and all, down a phonograph. You cannot get from the poor human soul, that living microcosm of changing impressions, the thorough, wholesale appreciation which you want. VI This same power of sentiment and fancy, that is to say, of association, enables us to carry about, like a verse or a tune, whole mountain ranges, valleys, rivers and lakes, things in appearance the least easy to remove from their place. As some persons are never unattended by a melody; so others, and among them your humble servant, have always for their thoughts and feelings, an additional background besides the one which happens to be visible behind their head and shoulders. By this means I am usually in two places at a time
of the imperial son-in-law, dangling at the end of a rope in full view of the Turkish populace, visibly reminded the Empire that Talaat and the Committee were the masters of Turkey. After this tragical test of strength, the Sultan never attempted again to interfere in affairs of State. He knew what had happened to Abdul Hamid, and he feared an even more terrible fate for himself. By the time I reached Constantinople the Young Turks thus completely controlled the Sultan. He was popularly referred to as an “iradé-machine,” a phrase which means about the same thing as when we refer to a man as a “rubber stamp.” His State duties consisted merely in performing certain ceremonies, such as receiving Ambassadors, and in affixing his signature to such papers as Talaat and his associates placed before him. This was a profound change in the Turkish system, since in that country for centuries the Sultan had been an unquestioned despot, whose will had been the only law, and who had centred in his own person all the forces and sovereignty. Not only the Sultan, but the Parliament, had become the subservient creature of the Committee, which chose practically all the members, who voted only as the predominant bosses dictated. The Committee had already filled several of the most powerful Cabinet offices with its creatures, and was reaching out for these few posts that, for several reasons, still remained in other hands. CHAPTER II THE “BOSS SYSTEM” IN THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE AND HOW IT PROVED USEFUL TO GERMANY Talaat, the leading man in this band of usurpers, really had remarkable personal qualities. Naturally Talaat’s life and character proved interesting to me, for I had for years been familiar with the Boss system in my own country, and in Talaat I saw many resemblances to the crude yet able citizens who have so frequently in the past gained power in local and State politics. Talaat’s origin was so obscure that there were plenty of stories in circulation concerning it. One account said he was a Bulgarian gypsy, while another described him as a Pomak--a Pomak being a man of Bulgarian blood whose ancestors, centuries ago, had embraced the Mohammedan faith. According to this latter explanation, which I think was the true one, this real ruler of the Turkish Empire was not a Turk at all. I can personally testify that he cared nothing for Mohammedanism, for, like most of the leaders of his party, he scoffed at all religions. “I hate all priests, rabbis, and brodjas,” he once told me--brodja being the nearest equivalent the Mohammedans have for the ministers of religion. I can also testify to the fact that Talaat paid no attention to certain injunctions of his Church, especially that against drinking; he was the presiding genius of a club that met not far from the American Embassy, whose tendencies were occasionally bacchanalian. In American city politics a streetcar driver or a gas-man has not uncommonly developed great abilities as a politician, and similarly Talaat had started life as a letter-carrier. From this occupation he had risen to be a telegraph-operator at Adrianople, and of these humble beginnings he was extremely proud. I visited him once or twice at his house. Although Talaat was then the most powerful man in the Turkish Empire, his home was still the modest home of a man of the people. It was cheaply furnished; the whole establishment reminded me of a moderately-priced apartment in New York. His most cherished possession was the telegraph instrument with which he had once earned his living; I have seen him take the key and call up one of his personal friends or associates. Talaat one night told me that he had that day received his salary as Minister of the Interior; after paying his debts, he said, he had just one hundred dollars left in the world. He liked to spend part of his spare time with the rough-shod crew that made up the Committee of Union and Progress; in the interims when he was out of the Cabinet he used to occupy the desk daily at party headquarters, personally managing the party machine. Despite these humble beginnings, Talaat had developed some of the qualities of a man of the world. Though his early training had not included instruction in the use of a knife and fork--such implements are wholly unknown among the poorer classes in Turkey--Talaat could attend diplomatic dinners and represent his country with a considerable amount of dignity and personal ease. I have always regarded it as indicating his innate cleverness that, though he had had little schooling, he had picked up enough French to converse tolerably in that language. Physically he was a striking figure. His powerful frame, his huge, sweeping back and his rocky biceps emphasised that natural mental strength and forcefulness which made possible his career. In discussing matters Talaat liked to sit at his desk, with his shoulders drawn up, his head thrown back, and his wrists, twice the size of an ordinary man’s, planted firmly on the table. It always seemed to me that it would take a crowbar to pry these wrists from the board, once Talaat’s strength and defiant spirit had laid them there. Whenever I think of Talaat now I do not primarily recall his rollicking laugh, his uproarious enjoyment of a good story, the mighty stride with which he crossed the room, his fierceness, his determination, his remorselessness--the whole life and nature of the man take form in those gigantic wrists. Talaat, like most strong men, had his forbidding, even his ferocious, moods. One day I found him sitting at the usual place, his massive shoulders drawn up, his eyes glowering, his wrists planted on the desk. I always anticipated trouble whenever I found him in this attitude. As I made request after request, Talaat, between his puffs at his cigarette, would answer “No!” “No!” “No!” I slipped around to his side of the desk. “I think those wrists are making all the trouble, your Excellency,” I said. “Won’t you please take them off the table?” Talaat’s ogre-like face began to crinkle, he threw up his arms, leaned back, and gave a roar of terrific laughter. He enjoyed my method of treating him so much that he granted every request I made. At another time I came into his room when a couple of Arab princes were present. Talaat was solemn and dignified, and refused every favour I asked. “No, I shall not do that. No, I haven’t the slightest idea of doing that,” he would answer. I saw that he was trying to impress his princely guests, to show them that he had become so great a man that he did not hesitate to “turn down” an Ambassador. So I came up nearer and spoke quietly. “I see you are trying to make an impression on these princes,” I said. “Now if it’s necessary for you to pose, do it with the Austrian Ambassador--he’s out there waiting to come in. My affairs are too important to be trifled with.” Talaat laughed. “Come back in an hour,” he said. I came back; the Arab princes had left, and we had no difficulty in arranging matters to my satisfaction. “Someone has got to govern Turkey; why not we?” Talaat once said to me. The situation had just about come to that. “I have been greatly disappointed,” he would tell me, “at the failure of the Turks to appreciate democratic institutions. I hoped for it once, and I worked hard for it--but they were not prepared for it.” He saw a Government which the first enterprising man who came along might seize, and he determined to be that man. Of all the Turkish politicians I met, I regarded Talaat as the only one who really had extraordinary innate ability. He had great force and dominance, the ability to think quickly and accurately, and an almost superhuman insight into men’s motives. His great geniality and his lively sense of humour also made him a splendid manager of men. He showed his shrewdness in the measures which he took, after the murder of Nazim, to gain the upper hand in this distracted Empire. He did not seize the Government all at once; he went at it gradually, feeling his way. He realised the weaknesses of his position; he had several forces to deal with: the envy of his associates on the revolutionary committee which had backed him, the army, the foreign Governments, and the several factions that made up what then passed for public opinion in Turkey. Any of these elements might destroy him, politically and physically. He understood the dangerous path he was treading, and he always anticipated a violent death. “I do not expect to die in my bed,” he told me. By becoming Minister of the Interior, Talaat gained control of the police and the administration of the provinces, or vilayets. This gave him a great amount of patronage, which he used to strengthen his position with the Committee. He attempted to gain the support of all influential factions by gradually placing their representatives in the other Cabinet posts. Though he afterwards became the man who was chiefly responsible for the massacre of hundreds of thousands of Armenians, at this time Talaat maintained the pretence that the Committee stood for the unionisation of all the races in the Empire, and for this reason his first Cabinet contained an Arab-Christian, a Deunme (a Jew by race, but a Mohammedan by religion), a Circassian, an Armenian, an Egyptian. He made the latter Grand Vizier, the highest post in the Government, a position which roughly corresponds to that of Chancellor in the German Empire. The man whom he selected for this part, which in ordinary times was the most dignified and important in the Empire, belonged to quite a different order of society from Talaat. Not uncommonly bosses in America select high-class figure-heads for mayors or even governors, men who will give respectability to their faction yet whom, at the same time, they think that they can control. It was some such motive as this which led Talaat and his associates to elevate Saïd Halim to the Grand Vizierate. Saïd Halim was an Egyptian Prince, the cousin of the Khedive of Egypt, a man of great wealth and great culture. He spoke English and French as fluently as his own tongue, and was an ornament to any society in the world. But he was a man of unlimited vanity and ambition. His great desire was to become Khedive of Egypt, and this had led him to join his political fortunes to the gang that was then ascendant in Turkey. He was the heaviest “campaign contributor,” and, indeed, he had largely furnished the Young Turks in their earliest days. In exchange they had given him the highest office in the Empire, but with the tacit understanding that he should not attempt to exercise the real powers of his office, but content himself with enjoying its dignities and holding himself in readiness for the Khedivate, when all their plans had succeeded. Germany’s war preparations had for years included the study of internal conditions in other countries. An indispensable part of the Imperial programme had been to take advantage of such disorganisations as existed to push her schemes of penetration and conquest. What her emissaries have attempted in France, Italy, and even the United States, is apparent, and their success in Russia has greatly changed the course of the war. Clearly such a situation as that which prevailed in Turkey in 1913 and 1914 provided an ideal opportunity of manipulations of this kind. And Germany had one great advantage in Turkey which was not so conspicuously an element in other countries. Talaat and his associates needed Germany almost as badly as Germany needed Talaat. They were altogether new to the business of managing an empire. Their finances were depleted, their army and navy almost in dissolution, enemies were constantly attempting to undermine them at home, and the great Powers regarded them as seedy adventurers whose career was destined to be brief. Without strong support from an outside source, it was doubtful how long the new regime could survive. Talaat and his Committee needed some foreign Power to organise the army and navy, to finance the nation, to help them reconstruct their industrial system, and to protect them against the encroachments of the encircling nations. Ignorant as they were of foreign countries, they needed a skilful adviser to pilot them through all the channels of international intrigue. Where was such a protector to be obtained? Evidently only one of the great European Powers could perform this office. Which one should it be? Ten years before Turkey would naturally have appealed to England. But now the Turks regarded England as merely the nation that had despoiled them of Egypt, and that had failed to protect Turkey from dismemberment after the Balkan wars. In association with Russia, Great Britain now controlled Persia and thus constituted a constant threat--at least, so the Turks believed--against their Asiatic dominions. England was gradually withdrawing her investments from Turkey; English statesmen believed that the task of driving the Turk from Europe was about complete, and the whole Near-Eastern policy of Great Britain hinged on maintaining the organisation of the Balkans as it had been determined by the Treaty of Bucharest--a treaty which Turkey refused to regard as binding and which she was determined to upset. Above all, the Turks feared Russia in 1914, just as they had feared her ever since the days of Peter the Great. Russia was the historic enemy, the nation which had given freedom to Bulgaria and Rumania, which had been most active in dismembering the Ottoman Empire, and which regarded herself as the nation that was ultimately to possess Constantinople. This fear of Russia, I cannot too much insist, was the one factor which, above everything else, was forcing Turkey into the arms of Germany. For more than half a century Turkey had regarded England as her surest safeguard against Russian aggression, and now England had become Russia’s virtual ally. There was even then a general belief, which the Turkish chieftains shared, that England was entirely willing that Russia should inherit Constantinople and the Dardanelles. Though Russia in 1914 was making no such pretensions, at least openly, the fact that she was crowding Turkey in other directions made it impossible that Talaat and Enver should look for support in that direction. Italy had just seized the last Turkish province in Africa--Tripoli--and at that moment was holding Rhodes and other Turkish islands and was known to cherish aggressive plans in Asia Minor. France was the ally of Russia and Great Britain, and was also constantly extending her influence in Syria, in which province, indeed, she had made great plans for “penetration” with railroads, colonies, and concessions. The personal equation played an important part in the ensuing drama. The Ambassadors of the Triple Entente hardly concealed their contempt for the dominant Turkish politicians and their methods. Sir Louis Mallet, the British Ambassador, was a high-minded and cultivated English gentleman; Bompard, the French Ambassador, was a similarly charming, honourable Frenchman, and both were constitutionally disqualified from participating in the murderous intrigues which then comprised Turkish politics. Giers, the Russian Ambassador, was a proud and scornful diplomat of the old aristocratic régime. He was exceedingly astute, but he treated the Young Turks contemptuously, manifested almost a proprietary interest in the country, and seemed to me already to be wielding the knout over this despised Government. It was quite apparent that the three Ambassadors of the Entente did not regard the Talaat and Enver régime as permanent, or as particularly worth their while to cultivate. That several factions had risen and fallen in the last six years they knew, and they likewise believed that this latest usurpation would vanish in a few months. But there was one active man in Turkey then who had no nice scruples about using such agencies as were most available for accomplishing his purpose. Wangenheim clearly saw what his colleagues had only faintly perceived: that these men were steadily fastening their hold on Turkey, and that they were looking for some strong Power that would recognise their position and abet them in maintaining it. In order that we may clearly understand the situation, let us transport ourselves, for a moment, to a country that is nearer to us than Turkey. In 1913 Victoriano Huerta and his fellow-conspirators gained control of Mexico by means not unlike those that had given Talaat and his Committee the supreme power in Turkey. Just as Huerta murdered Madero, so the Young Turks had murdered Nazim, and in both cases assassination became a regular political weapon. Huerta controlled the Mexican Congress and the offices just as Talaat controlled the Turkish Parliament and the chief posts of the State. Mexico under Huerta was a poverty-stricken country, with depleted finances, exhausted industries and agriculture, just as was Turkey under Talaat. How did Huerta seek to secure his own position and rehabilitate his distracted country? There was only one way, of course: that was by enlisting the support of some strong foreign Power. He sought repeatedly to gain recognition from the United States for this reason. When we refused to deal with a murderer, Huerta looked to Germany. Let us suppose that the Kaiser had responded; he could have reorganised Mexican finances, rebuilt her railroads, re-established her industries, modernised her army, and in this way obtained a grip on the country that would have amounted to virtual possession. Only one thing prevented Germany from doing this--the Monroe Doctrine. But there was no Monroe Doctrine in Turkey, and what I have stated as a possibility in Mexico is in the main an accurate picture of what happened in the Ottoman Empire. As I look back upon the situation, the whole thing seems so clear, so simple, so inevitable. Germany, up to that time, was practically the only great Power in Europe that had not appropriated large slices of Turkish territory, a fact which gave her an initial advantage. Germany’s representation at Constantinople was far better qualified than that of any other country, not only by absence of scruples, but also by knowledge and skill, to handle this situation. Wangenheim was not the only capable German then on the ground. A particularly influential outpost of Pan-Germany was Paul Weitz, who had represented the _Frankfürter Zeitung_ in Turkey for thirty years. Weitz had the most intimate acquaintance with Turks and Turkish affairs; there was not a hidden recess to which he could not gain admittance. He was constantly at Wangenheim’s elbow, coaching advising, informing. The German naval attaché, Humann, the son of a famous German archæologist, had been born in Smyrna, and had passed practically his whole life in Turkey. He not only spoke Turkish, but he could also think like a Turk, and the whole psychology of the people was part of his mental equipment. Moreover, Enver, one of the two main Turkish chieftains, was on close friendly terms with Humann. When I think of this experienced trio, Wangenheim, Weitz, and Humann, and of the charming and honourable gentlemen who were opposed to them, Mallet, Bompard, and Giers, the events that now rapidly followed seem as inevitable as the orderly processes of nature. By the spring of 1914 Talaat and Enver, representing the Committee of Union and Progress, practically dominated the Turkish Empire. Wangenheim, always having in mind the approaching war, had one inevitable move: that was to control Talaat and Enver. Early in January, 1914, Enver became Minister of War. At that time he was thirty-two years old. Like all the leading Turkish politicians of the period, he came of humble stock, and his popular title, “hero of the revolution,” shows why Talaat and the Committee had selected him as Minister of War. Enver enjoyed something of a military reputation, though, so far as I could discover, he had never achieved a great military success. The revolution of which he was one of the leaders in 1908 cost very few human lives; he commanded an army in Tripoli against the Italians in 1912--but certainly there was nothing Napoleonic about that campaign. Enver used to tell me himself how, in the second Balkan war, he had ridden all night at the head of his troops to the capture of Adrianople, and how, when he arrived there, the Bulgarians had abandoned it and his victory had thus been a bloodless one. But certainly Enver did have one trait that made for success in such a distracted country as Turkey--and that was audacity. He was quick in making decisions, always ready to stake his future and his very life upon the success of a simple adventure; from the beginning, indeed, his career had been one lucky crisis after another. His nature had a remorselessness, a lack of pity, a cold-blooded determination, of which his clean-cut handsome face, his small but sturdy figure, and his pleasing manners, gave no indication. Nor would the casual spectator have suspected the passionate personal ambition that drove him on. His friends commonly referred to him as “Napoleonlik”--the little Napoleon--and this nickname really represented Enver’s abiding conviction. I remember sitting one night with Enver, in his house; on one side hung a picture of Napoleon, on the other one of Frederick the Great, and between them sat Enver himself! This fact gives some notion of his vanity; these two warriors and statesmen were his great heroes, and I believe that Enver thought fate had a career in store for him not unlike theirs. The fact that, at twenty-six, he had taken a leading part in the revolution which had deposed Abdul Hamid naturally caused him to compare himself with Bonaparte, and several times has he told me that he believed himself to be “a man of destiny.” Enver even affected to believe that he had been divinely set apart to re-establish the glory of Turkey and make himself the great dictator. Yet, as I have suggested, there was something almost dainty and feminine in Enver’s appearance. He was the type that in America we sometimes call a _matinée_ idol, and the word women frequently used to describe him was “dashing.” His face contained not a single line or furrow; it never disclosed his emotions or his thoughts; he was always calm, steely, imperturbable. That Enver certainly lacked Napoleon’s penetration is evident from the way in which he had planned to obtain the supreme power, for he early allied his personal fortunes with Germany. For years his sympathies had been with the Kaiser. Germany, the German Army and Navy, the German language, the German autocratic system, exercised a fatal charm upon this early preacher of Turkish democracy. When Hamid fell, Enver had gone on a military mission to Berlin, and here the Kaiser immediately detected in him a possible instrument for working out his plans in the Orient, and cultivated him in numerous ways. Afterward Enver spent a considerable time in Berlin as military attaché, and this experience still further attached him to Germany. The man who returned to Constantinople was almost more German than Turkish. He had learned to speak German fluently, he was aping Germany in all matters, he was even wearing a moustache slightly curled up at the ends; indeed, he had been completely captivated by Prussianism. As soon as Enver became Minister of War, Wangenheim flattered and cajoled the young man, played upon his ambitions, and doubtless promised him Germany’s complete support in achieving them. In his private conversation Enver made no secret of his admiration for Germany. Thus Enver’s elevation to the Ministry of War was virtually a German victory. He immediately instituted a drastic reorganisation. Enver told me himself that he had accepted the post only on condition that he should have a free hand; and this free hand he now proceeded to exercise. The army still contained a large number of officers who inclined to the old régime rather than to the Young Turks--many of whom were partisans of the murdered Nazim. Enver promptly cashiered 268 of these, and put in their places Turks who were known as “U. and P.” men and many Germans. The Enver-Talaat group always feared a revolution that would depose them as they had thrown out their predecessors. Many times did they tell me that their own success as revolutionists had taught them how easily a few determined men could seize control of the country; they did not propose, they said, to have a little group in their army organise such a _coup d’état_ against them. The boldness of Enver’s move alarmed even Talaat, but Enver showed the determination of his character and refused to reconsider his action, though one of the officers removed was Chukri Pasha, who had defended Adrianople in the Balkan war. Enver issued a circular to the Turkish commanders practically telling them that they must look to him for preferment alone, and that they could make no headway by playing politics with any group except that dominated by the Young Turks. Thus, Enver’s first acts were the beginnings in the Prussiafication of the Turkish Army, but Talaat was not an enthusiastic German like his associate. He had no intention of playing Germany’s game; he was working chiefly for the Committee and for himself. But he could not succeed unless he had control of the army, and therefore he had made Enver, for years his closest associate in “U. and P.” politics, Minister of War. Again, he needed a strong army if he was to have any at all, and therefore he turned to the one source where he could find assistance--to Germany. Wangenheim and Talaat, in the latter part of 1913, had arranged that the Kaiser should send a military mission to reorganise the Turkish Army. Talaat told me that on calling in this mission he was using Germany, though Germany thought that it was using him. That there were definite dangers in the move he well understood. A deputy who discussed this situation with Talaat in January, 1914, has given me a memorandum of a conversation which shows well what was going on in Talaat’s mind. “Why do you hand the management of the country over to the Germans?” asked this deputy, referring to the German military mission. “Don’t you see that this is part of Germany’s plan to make Turkey a German colony? That we shall become merely another Egypt?” “We understand perfectly,” replied Talaat, “that that is Germany’s programme. We also know that we cannot put this country on its feet with our own resources. We shall, therefore, take advantage of such technical and material assistance as the Germans can place at our disposal. We shall use Germany to help us reconstruct and defend the country until we are able to govern ourselves with our own strength. When that day comes, we can say good-bye to the Germans within twenty-four hours.” Certainly the physical condition of the Turkish Army betrayed the need of assistance from some source. The picture it presented, before the Germans arrived, I have always regarded as portraying the condition of the whole Empire. When I issued invitations for my first reception a large number of Turkish officials asked to be permitted to come in evening clothes; they said that they had no uniforms and no money with which to purchase or to hire them. They had not received their salaries for three and a half months. As the Grand Vizier, who regulates the etiquette of such functions, still insisted on full military dress, many of those officials had to absent themselves. About the same time the new German mission asked the Commander of the Second Army Corps to exercise his men, but the Commander replied that he could not do so as his men had no shoes! Desperate and wicked as Talaat subsequently showed himself to be, I still think that he, at least then, was not a willing tool of Germany. An episode that involved myself bears out this view. In describing the relations of the great Powers to Turkey I have said nothing about the United States. In fact, we had no important business relations at that time. The Turks regarded us as a country of idealists and altruists, and the fact that we spent millions in building wonderful educational institutions in their country purely from philanthropic motives aroused their astonishment and possibly their admiration. They liked Americans and regarded us as about the only disinterested friends whom they had among the nations. But our interest in Turkey was small; the Standard Oil Company did a growing business, the Singer Company sold sewing machines to the Armenians, we bought much of their tobacco, figs, and rugs, and gathered their liquorice root. In addition to these activities, missionaries and educational experts were about our only contacts with the Turkish Empire. The Turks knew that we had no desire to dismember their country or to mingle in Balkan politics. The very fact that my country was so disinterested was perhaps the reason why Talaat discussed Turkish affairs so freely with me. In the course of these conversations I frequently expressed my desire to serve them, and Talaat and some of the other members of the Cabinet got into the habit of consulting me on business matters. Soon after my arrival, I made a speech at the American Chamber of Commerce in Constantinople; Talaat, Djemal, and other important leaders were present. I talked about the backward economic state of Turkey, and admonished them not to be discouraged. I described the condition of the United States after the Civil War, and made the point that our devastated Southern States presented a spectacle not unlike that of Turkey at that present moment. I then related how we had gone to work, realised on our resources, and built up the present thriving nation. My remarks apparently made a deep impression, especially my statement that after the Civil War the United States had become a large borrower in foreign money markets and had invited immigration from all parts of the world. This speech apparently gave Talaat a new idea. It was not impossible that the United States might furnish him the material support which he had been seeking in Europe. Already I had suggested that an American financial expert should be sent to study Turkish finance, and in this connection I had mentioned Mr. Henry Bruère, of New York--a suggestion which the Turks had favourably received. At that time Turkey’s greatest need was money. France had financed Turkey for many years, and French bankers, in the spring of 1914, were negotiating for another large loan. Though Germany had made some loans, the condition of the Berlin money market at that time did not encourage the Turks to expect much assistance from that source. In late December, 1913, Bustány Effendi, a Christian Arab, and Minister of Commerce and Agriculture, who spoke English fluently--he had been Turkish commissioner to the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893--called and approached me on the question of an American loan. Bustány asked if there were not American financiers who would take entire charge of the reorganisation of Turkish finance. His plea was really a cry of despair and it touched me deeply. As I wrote in my diary at the time, “They seem to be scraping the box for money.” But I had been in Turkey only six weeks, and obviously I had no information on which I could recommend such a large contract to American bankers. I informed him that my advice would not carry much weight in the United States unless it were based on a complete knowledge of economic conditions in Turkey. Talaat came to me a few days later, suggesting that I make a prolonged tour over the Empire and study the situation at first hand. Meanwhile he asked if I could not arrange a small temporary loan to tide them over the interim. He said there was no money in the Turkish Treasury; if I could only get them $5,000,000, that would satisfy them. I told Talaat that I would try to get this money for them and that I would adopt his suggestion and inspect his Empire with the possible idea of interesting American investors. After obtaining the consent of the State Department I wrote to my nephew and business associate, Mr. Robert E. Simon, asking him to sound certain New York institutions and bankers on making a small short-time collateral loan to Turkey. Mr. Simon’s investigations soon disclosed that a Turkish loan did not seem to be regarded as an attractive business undertaking in New York. Mr. Simon wrote, however, that Mr. C. K. G. Billings had shown much interest in the idea; and that, if I desired, Mr. Billings would come out in his yacht and discuss the matter with the Turkish Cabinet and with me. In a few days Mr. Billings had started for Constantinople. The news of Mr. Billings’s approach spread with great rapidity all over the Turkish capital; the fact that he was coming in his own private yacht seemed to magnify the importance and the glamour of the event. That a great American millionaire was prepared to reinforce the depleted Turkish Treasury and that this support was merely the preliminary step in the reorganisation of Turkish finances by American capitalists produced a tremendous flutter in the foreign embassies. So rapidly did the information spread, indeed, that I rather suspected that the Turkish Cabinet had taken no particular pains to keep it secret. This suspicion was strengthened by a visit which I received from the Chief Rabbi Nahoum, who informed me that he had come at the request of Talaat. “There is a rumour,” said the Chief Rabbi, “that Americans are about to make a loan to Turkey. Talaat would be greatly pleased if you would not contradict it.” Wangenheim displayed an almost hysterical interest; the idea of America coming to the financial assistance of Turkey did not fall in with his plans at all, for in his eyes Turkey’s poverty was chiefly valuable as a means of forcing the Empire into Germany’s hands. One day I showed Wangenheim a book containing etchings of Mr. Billings’s homes, pictures, and horses; he showed a great interest, not only in the horses--Wangenheim was something of a horseman himself--but in this tangible evidence of great wealth. For the next few days ambassador after ambassador and minister after minister filed into my office, each solemnly asking for a glimpse at this book! As the time approached for Mr. Billings’s arrival Talaat began making elaborate plans for his entertainment; he consulted with me as to whom we should invite to the proposed dinners, lunches, and receptions. As usual, Wangenheim got in ahead of the rest. He could not come to the dinner which we had planned, and asked me to have him for lunch, and in this way he met Mr. Billings several hours before the other diplomats. Mr. Billings frankly told him that he was interested in Turkey and that it was not unlikely that he would make the loan. In the evening we gave the Billings party a dinner, all the important members of the Turkish Cabinet being present. Before this dinner, Talaat, Mr. Billings, and myself had a long talk about the loan. Talaat informed us that the French bankers had accepted their terms that very day, and that they would, therefore, need no American money at that time. He was exceedingly gracious and grateful to Mr. Billings and profuse in expressing his thanks. Indeed, he might well have been, for Mr. Billings’s arrival enabled Turkey at last to close negotiations with the French bankers. His attempt to express his appreciation had one curious manifestation. Enver, the second man in the Cabinet, was celebrating his wedding when Mr. Billings arrived. The progress which Enver was making in the Turkish world is evidenced from the fact that, although Enver, as I have said, came of the humblest stock, his bride was a daughter of the Turkish Imperial House. Turkish weddings are prolonged affairs, lasting two or three days. The day following the Embassy dinner Talaat gave the Billings party a luncheon at the Cercle d’Orient, and he insisted that Enver should leave his wedding ceremony long enough to attend this function. Enver, therefore, came to the luncheon, sat through all the speeches, and then returned to his bridal party. I am convinced that Talaat did not regard this Billings episode as closed. As I look back upon this transaction I see clearly that he was seeking to extricate his country, and that the possibility that
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Esq. Warren, Charles, Esq., Stone Buildings Walbank, W., Esq., Sowerby, Yorkshire Walker, R. Esq., Northallerton, Yorkshire Walker, William, Esq., Thirsk, do. _2 Copies_ Walker, Mrs., Thirsk, Yorkshire _2 Copies_ Walker, Miss, Thirsk, do. _2 Copies_ Walker, Charles, Esq., Thirsk, do. _2 Copies_ Walker, Mrs. Charles, Thirsk _2 Copies_ Watson, Mr., Manchester _2 Copies_ Watson, Mrs., Manchester Watson, Mr., Jonathan, Manchester Watson, Miss, Manchester Wright, Mr. Griffith, Leeds Yorke, Rev. Philip, Prebend of Ely Yonge, Charles, Esq., Master at Eton College _10 Copies_ Yellowly, Dr., M.D. Yorke, ----, Esq., Wimpole Yorke, Mrs., Wimpole Gustavus Vasa. ARGUMENT. _State of Sweden at the commencement of the Poem--A Council--Trollio--Bernheim--Ernestus--Christiern proposes the reduction of Dalecarlia--Ernestus opposes him, is committed to prison--Christiern takes his measures to oppose a rebellion just arisen in Denmark._ Gustavus Vasa, A POEM. BOOK I. The Swede I sing, by Heaven ordain'd to save His country's glories from a Danish grave, Restore her laws, her Papal rites efface, And fix her freedom on a lasting base. Celestial Liberty! by whom impell'd From early youth fair honour's path he held; By whose strong aid his patient courage rose Superior to the rushing tide of woes, And at whose feet, when Heaven his toils repaid, His brightest wreaths the grateful hero laid: Me too assist; with thy inspiring beam Aid my weak powers, and bless my rising theme! Stockholm to Christiern bow'd her captive head; } By Treachery's axe her slaughter'd senate bled, } And her brave chief was numbered with the dead. } Piled with her breathless sons, th' uncultured land With daily ravage fed a wasteful band; And ruthless Christiern, wheresoe'er be flew, Around his steps a track of crimson drew. Already, by Heaven's dark protection led, To Dalecarlia Sweden's hero fled; There, with a pious friend retired, unknown, He mourn'd his country's sorrows, and his own. Those mountain peasants, negatively free, The sole surviving friends of Liberty, Unbought by bribes, still trample Christiern's power, And wait in silence the decisive hour. 'Twas morn when Christiern bade a herald call His secret council to the regal hall-- Those whom his skill, selecting, had combined To share the deep recesses of his mind: In these the prince unshaken trust reposed, To these his intricate designs disclosed; Their counsel, teeming with maturest thought, His ripening plans to full perfection brought, Each enterprise with proper means supplied, And stemm'd strong difficulty's threatening tide: The summons heard, th' obedient train attend, Collect, and hastening toward the palace bend. First of their order, as in rank and fame Superior, Upsal's haughty prelate came; Erect in priestly pride, he stalk'd along, And tower'd supreme o'er all the princely throng. A soul congenial, and a mind replete With ready artifice and bold deceit, To suit a tyrant's ends, however base, In Christiern's friendship had secured his place. His were the senator's and courtier's parts, And all the statesman's magazine of arts; His, each expedient, each all-powerful wile, To thwart a foe, or win a monarch's smile: The nicely-plann'd and well-pursued intrigue; The smooth evasion of the hollow league; The specious argument, that subtly strays Thro' winding sophistry's protracted maze: The complicated, deep, immense design, That works in darkness like a labouring mine, Unknown to all, 'till, bursting into birth, Its wide explosion shakes th' astonish'd earth. His was the prompt invention, fruitful still In means subservient to the varying will: The flexible expertness, smooth and mean, That glides thro' obstacles, and wins unseen: The quick discernment, that with eagle eyes Sees distant storms in ether darkly rise, And active vigour, that arrests their course, Or to a different aim diverts their force. He, in a happier land, by freedom bless'd, Had hallow'd virtue dawn'd upon his breast, Had done some glorious deed, to stamp his name High on the roll of ever-during fame; Snatch'd from Oppression's jaws some victim realm, Or fix'd in stable peace his country's wavering helm. But baleful Guilt usurp'd with fatal care A heart which Virtue had been proud to share; And turn'd to hateful dross the radiant ore, Whose lustre might have gilded Sweden's shore. As the red dog star, Autumn's fiery eye, Shines eminent o'er all the spangled sky, While thro' th' afflicted earth his torrid breath Darts glowing fevers and a cloud of death: So Trollio shone, in whose corrupted mind Transcendent genius and deep guilt combined; Placed all his arduous aims within his reach, Yet fix'd the stamp of infamy on each. But Providence, whose undiscover'd plan Lies deeper than the wiliest schemes of man, Can bare the sty designer's latent guilt, And crush to dust the structures he has built; Can disappoint the subtle tyrant's spite, And stem the billows of his stormy might; Confound a Trollio's skill, a Christiern's power, And blast presumption in its haughtiest hour. So Christiern found--and Trollio found it true, (Unwelcome truth, to his experience new!) That he, who trusts in guilty friendship, binds His fortune to a cloud, that shifts with veering winds. Throned in Religion's seat, he scorn'd her laws, And with a cool indifference view'd her cause: Yet, might her earthly treasures feed the fire Of wild ambition, or base gain's desire, He could assume, at will, her fairest dress-- Could plunge in Superstition's dark recess-- Or the red mask of Bigotry put on; The fiercest champion, where there needed none. But, should she cross some glittering enterprise, Her pleas, her awful threats, he could despise; Oaths, lightly sworn, and now forgotten things, Vanish'd, like smoke before the tempest's wings. At interest's call, when danger's sudden voice Extinguish'd hope, nor left a final choice, His sacred honours he renounc'd, and fled To hide in silent solitude his head: At interest's call, he calmly thrust aside Each bond of conscience that opposed his pride, And, deeming every scruple out of place, Back posted to his dignified disgrace. Next, with a lofty step advancing, came A martial chieftain--Otho was his name: In Denmark born, of an illustrious line, Whose glories, now effaced, had ceased to shine; And he was but unanxious to redeem Those honours, in his eyes a worthless dream. Trained in licentious customs, he despised All virtue's rules, and pleasure only prized; And, faithful as the magnet, turn'd his head To follow fortune wheresoe'er it led: Tho' hostile justice rear'd her loftiest mound, To bar his passage o'er forbidden ground. Swift o'er all impediments he flew, And strain'd his eyes to keep the prize in view. Religion, virtue, sense, to him were nought; He hated none, yet none employ'd his thought, Save when he glitter'd in their borrowed beam, To gain preferment, or to court esteem. The minister, not tool, of Christiern's will, He serv'd his measures, yet despis'd him still: Scann'd with impartial view th'encircling scene, Glancing o'er all an eye exact and keen, Advantage to descry; and seldom fail'd, When Virtue's cause by Fortune's will prevail'd, On virtue's side his valour to display, And ne'er forsake it, but for better pay. And, e'en when Danger round his fenceless head Her threatening weight of mountain surges spread, He, like a whale amid the tempest's roar, Smiled at the storm, nor deign'd to wish it o'er. 'Twas dull instinctive boldness--like a fire Pent up in earth, whose forces ne'er expire, By grossest fuel nourished, but immured In dingy night, shine heavy and obscured; Sustain'd by this thro' all the scenes of strife, Whose dark succession form'd his chequer'd life, He ne'er the soul's sublimer courage felt, That warms the heart, and teaches it to melt; That nurses liberty's expanding seeds, And teems prolific with the noblest deeds. To guide the storm of battle o'er the plain, Condense its force, expand it, or restrain; To turn the tide of conquest to defeat By stratagems too fatally complete, Or freeze it by delay; to aim at will The well-timed stroke that mars all adverse skill; To range, in order firm, th'embattled line; Or shape, as regular, the bold design; All these were his--yet not all these could claim Exemptions from the lot of penal shame, Or snatch from glory's plant one servile wreath, To deck the waste of crimes, that frown'd beneath. Harden'd in villany, with fate unfeign'd He mock'd at warning, scorn'd reproach, nor deign'd To answer either, and remorse's dart Recoil'd from his impenetrable heart: Save in those hours when darkness or when pain Recals its force, and guilt recedes again; When passion, vice, and fancy quit their sway, When lawless pleasure trembling shrinks away, While black conviction's rushing whirlwinds quench Her smoky torch, and leave a sickening stench; And thro' the
a colossal figure of a goat made of straw.(64) But sometimes the corn-spirit, in the form of a goat, is believed to be slain on the harvest-field by the sickle or scythe. Thus, in the neighbourhood of Bernkastel, on the Moselle, the reapers determine by lot the order in which they shall follow each other. The first is called the fore-reaper, the last the tail-bearer. If a reaper overtakes the man in front he reaps past him, bending round so as to leave the slower reaper in a patch by himself. This patch is called the Goat; and the man for whom "the Goat is cut" in this way, is laughed and jeered at by his fellows for the rest of the day. When the tail-bearer cuts the last ears of corn, it is said "He is cutting the Goat's neck off."(65) In the neighbourhood of Grenoble, before the end of the reaping, a live goat is adorned with flowers and ribbons and allowed to run about the field. The reapers chase it and try to catch it. When it is caught, the farmer's wife holds it fast while the farmer cuts off its head. The goat's flesh serves to furnish the harvest supper. A piece of the flesh is pickled and kept till the next harvest, when another goat is killed. Then all the harvesters eat of the flesh. On the same day the skin of the goat is made into a cloak, which the farmer, who works with his men, must always wear at harvest-time if rain or bad weather sets in. But if a reaper gets pains in his back, the farmer gives him the goat-skin to wear.(66) The reason for this seems to be that the pains in the back, being inflicted by the corn-spirit, can also be healed by it. Similarly we saw that elsewhere, when a reaper is wounded at reaping, a cat, as the representative of the corn-spirit, is made to lick the wound.(67) Esthonian reapers in the island of Mon think that the man who cuts the first ears of corn at harvest will get pains in his back,(68)--probably because the corn-spirit is believed to resent especially the first wound; and, in order to escape pains in the back, Saxon reapers in Transylvania gird their loins with the first handful of ears which they cut.(69) Here, again, the corn-spirit is applied to for healing or protection, but in his original vegetable form, not in the form of a goat or a cat. Further, the corn-spirit under the form of a goat is sometimes conceived as lurking among the cut corn in the barn, till he is driven from it by the threshing-flail. For example, in the neighbourhood of Marktl in Upper Bavaria the sheaves are called Straw-goats or simply Goats. They are laid in a great heap on the open field and threshed by two rows of men standing opposite each other, who, as they ply their flails, sing a song in which they say that they see the Straw-goat amongst the corn-stalks. The last Goat, that is, the last sheaf, is adorned with a wreath of violets and other flowers and with cakes strung together. It is placed right in the middle of the heap. Some of the threshers rush at it and tear the best of it out; others lay on with their flails so recklessly that heads are sometimes broken. In threshing this last sheaf, each man casts up to the man opposite him the misdeeds of which he has been guilty throughout the year.(70) At Oberinntal in Tyrol the last thresher is called Goat.(71) At Tettnang in Würtemberg the thresher who gives the last stroke to the last bundle of corn before it is turned goes by the name of the He-goat, and it is said "he has driven the He-goat away." The person who, after the bundle has been turned, gives the last stroke of all, is called the She-goat.(72) In this custom it is implied that the corn is inhabited by a pair of corn-spirits, male and female. Further, the corn-spirit, captured in the form of a goat at threshing, is passed on to a neighbour whose threshing is not yet finished. In Franche Comté, as soon as the threshing is over, the young people set up a straw figure of a goat on the farmyard of a neighbour who is still threshing. He must give them wine or money in return. At Ellwangen in Würtemberg the effigy of a goat is made out of the last bundle of corn at threshing; four sticks form its legs, and two its horns. The man who gives the last stroke with the flail must carry the Goat to the barn of a neighbour who is still threshing and throw it down on the floor; if he is caught in the act, they tie the Goat on his back.(73) A similar custom is observed at Indersdorf in Upper Bavaria; the man who throws the straw Goat into the neighbour's barn imitates the bleating of a goat; if they catch him they blacken his face and tie the Goat on his back.(74) At Zabern in Elsass, when a farmer is a week or more behind his neighbours with his threshing, they set a real stuffed goat (or fox) before his door.(75) Sometimes the spirit of the corn in goat form is believed to be killed at threshing. In the district of Traunstein, Upper Bavaria, it is thought that the Oats-goat is in the last sheaf of oats. He is represented by an old rake set up on end, with an old pot for a head. The children are then told to kill the Oats-goat.(76) A stranger passing a harvest-field is sometimes taken for the Corn-goat escaping in human shape from the cut or threshed grain. Thus, when a stranger passes a harvest-field, all the labourers stop and shout as with one voice "He-goat! He-goat!" At rape-seed threshing in Schleswig, which generally takes place on the field, the same cry is raised if the stranger does not take off his hat.(77) At sowing their winter corn the Prussian Slavs used to kill a goat, consume its flesh with many superstitious ceremonies, and hang the skin on a high pole near an oak and a large stone. Here it remained till harvest. Then, after a prayer had been offered by a peasant who acted as priest (_Weidulut_) the young folk joined hands and danced round the oak and the pole. Afterwards they scrambled for the bunch of corn, and the priest distributed the herbs with a sparing hand. Then he placed the goat-skin on the large stone, sat down on it and preached to the people about the history of their forefathers and their old heathen customs and beliefs.(78) The goat-skin thus suspended on the field from sowing time to harvest represents the corn-spirit superintending the growth of the corn. Another form which the corn-spirit often assumes is that of a bull, cow, or ox. When the wind sweeps over the corn they say at Conitz in West Prussia, "The Steer is running in the corn;"(79) when the corn is thick and strong in one spot, they say in some parts of East Prussia, "The Bull is lying in the corn." When a harvester has overstrained and lamed himself, they say in the Graudenz district (West Prussia), "The Bull pushed him;" in Lothringen they say, "He has the Bull." The meaning of both expressions is that he has unwittingly lighted upon the divine corn-spirit, who has punished the profane intruder with lameness.(80) So near Chambéry when a reaper wounds himself with his sickle, it is said that he has "the wound of the Ox."(81) In the district of Bunzlau the last sheaf is sometimes made into the shape of a horned ox, stuffed with tow and wrapt in corn-ears. This figure is called the Old Man (_der Alte_). In some parts of Bohemia the last sheaf is made up in human form and called the Buffalo-bull.(82) These cases show a confusion between the anthropomorphic and the theriomorphic conception of the corn-spirit. The confusion is parallel to that of killing a wether under the name of a wolf.(83) In the Canton of Thurgau, Switzerland, the last sheaf, if it is a large one, is called the Cow.(84) All over Swabia the last bundle of corn on the field is called the Cow; the man who cuts the last ears "has the Cow," and is himself called Cow or Barley-cow or Oats-cow, according to the crop; at the harvest supper he gets a nosegay of flowers and corn-ears and a more liberal allowance of drink than the rest. But he is teased and laughed at; so no one likes to be the Cow.(85) The Cow was sometimes represented by the figure of a woman made out of ears of corn and corn-flowers. It was carried to the farmhouse by the man who had cut the last handful of corn. The children ran after him and the neighbours turned out to laugh at him, till the farmer took the Cow from him.(86) Here again the confusion between the human and the animal form of the corn-spirit is apparent. In various parts of Switzerland the reaper who cuts the last ears of corn is called Wheat-cow, Corn-cow, Oats-cow, or Corn-steer, and is the butt of many a joke.(87) In some parts of East Prussia, when a few ears of corn have been left standing by inadvertence on the last swath, the foremost reaper seizes them and cries, "Bull! Bull!"(88) On the other hand, in the district of Rosenheim, in Upper Bavaria, when a farmer is later in getting in his harvest than his neighbours, they set up on his land a Straw-bull, as it is called. This is a gigantic figure of a bull made of stubble on a framework of wood and adorned with flowers and leaves. A label is attached to it containing doggerel verses in ridicule of the man on whose land the Straw-bull is placed.(89) Again, the corn-spirit in the form of a bull or ox is killed on the harvest-field at the close of the reaping. At Pouilly near Dijon, when the last ears of corn are about to be cut, an ox adorned with ribbons, flowers, and ears of corn is led all round the field, followed by the whole troop of reapers dancing. Then a man disguised as the Devil cuts the last ears of corn and immediately kills the ox. Part of the flesh of the animal is eaten at the harvest supper; part is pickled and kept till the first day of sowing in spring. At Pont à Mousson and elsewhere on the evening of the last day of reaping a calf adorned with flowers and ears of corn is led three times round the farmyard, being allured by a bait or driven by men with sticks, or conducted by the farmer's wife with a rope. The calf selected for this ceremony is the calf which was born first on the farm in the spring of the year. It is followed by all the reapers with their implements. Then it is allowed to run free; the reapers chase it, and whoever catches it is called King of the Calf. Lastly, it is solemnly killed; at Lunéville the man who acts as butcher is the Jewish merchant of the village.(90) Sometimes again the corn-spirit hides himself amongst the cut corn in the barn to reappear in bull or cow form at threshing. Thus at Wurmlingen in Thüringen the man who gives the last stroke at threshing is called the Cow, or rather the Barley-cow, Oats-cow, Peas-cow, etc., according to the crop. He is entirely enveloped in straw; his head is surmounted by sticks in imitation of horns, and two lads lead him by ropes to the well to drink. On the way thither he must low like a cow, and for a long time afterwards he goes by the name of the Cow.(91) At Obermedlingen in Swabia, when the threshing draws near an end, each man is careful to avoid giving the last stroke. He who does give it "gets the Cow," which is a straw figure dressed in an old ragged petticoat, hood, and stockings. It is tied on his back with a straw-rope; his face is blackened, he is tied with straw-ropes to a wheelbarrow, and wheeled round the village.(92) Here, again, we are met with that confusion between the anthropomorphic and theriomorphic conception of the corn-spirit, which has been already signalised. In Canton Schaffhausen the man who threshes the last corn is called the Cow; in Canton Thurgau, the Corn-bull; in Canton Zurich, the Thresher-cow. In the last-mentioned district he is wrapt in straw and bound to one of the trees in the orchard.(93) At Arad in Hungary the man who gives the last stroke at threshing is enveloped in straw and a cow's hide with the horns attached to it.(94) At Pessnitz, in the district of Dresden, the man who gives the last stroke with the flail is called Bull. He must make a straw-man and set it up before a neighbour's window.(95) Here, apparently, as in so many cases, the corn-spirit is passed on to a neighbour who has not finished threshing. So at Herbrechtingen in Thüringen the effigy of a ragged old woman is flung into the barn of the farmer who is last with his threshing. The man who throws it in cries, "There is the Cow for you." If the threshers catch him they detain him over night and punish him by keeping him from the harvest supper.(96) In these latter customs the confusion between the anthropomorphic and theriomorphic conception of the corn-spirit meets us again. Further, the corn-spirit in bull form is sometimes believed to be killed at threshing. At Auxerre in threshing the last bundle of corn they call out twelve times, "We are killing the Bull." In the neighbourhood of Bordeaux, where a butcher kills an ox on the field immediately after the close of the reaping, it is said of the man who gives the last stroke at threshing that "he has killed the Bull."(97) At Chambéry the last sheaf is called the sheaf of the Young Ox and a race takes place to it, in which all the reapers join. When the last stroke is given at threshing they say that "the Ox is killed;" and immediately thereupon a real ox is slaughtered by the reaper who cut the last corn. The flesh of the ox is eaten by the threshers at supper.(98) We have seen that sometimes the young corn-spirit, whose task it is to quicken the corn of the coming year, is believed to be born as a Corn-baby on the harvest-field.(99) Similarly in Berry the young corn-spirit is sometimes believed to be born on the field in calf form. For when a binder has not rope enough to bind all the corn in sheaves, he puts aside the wheat that remains over and imitates the lowing of a cow. The meaning is that "the sheaf has given birth to a calf."(100) In Puy-de-Dôme when a binder cannot keep up with the reaper whom he or she follows, they say "He or she is giving birth to the Calf."(101) In some parts of Prussia, in similar circumstances, they call out to the woman, "The Bull is coming," and imitate the bellowing of a bull.(102) In these cases the woman is conceived as the Corn-cow or old corn-spirit, while the supposed calf is the Corn-calf or young corn-spirit. In some parts of Austria a mythical calf (_Muhkälbchen_) is believed to be seen amongst the sprouting corn in spring and to push the children; when the corn waves in the wind they say, "The Calf is going about." Clearly, as Mannhardt observes, this calf of the spring-time is the same animal which is afterwards believed to be killed at reaping.(103) Sometimes the corn-spirit appears in the shape of a horse or mare. Between Kalw and Stuttgart, when the corn bends before the wind, they say, "There runs the Horse."(104) In Hertfordshire, at the end of the reaping, there is or was a ceremony called "crying the Mare." The last blades of corn left standing on the field are tied together and called the Mare. The reapers stand at a distance and throw their sickles at it; he who cuts it through "has the prize, with acclamations and good cheer." After it is cut the reapers cry thrice with a loud voice, "I have her!" Others answer thrice, "What have you?"--"A Mare! a Mare! a Mare!"--"Whose is she?" is next asked thrice. "A. B.'s," naming the owner thrice. "Whither will you send her?"--"To C. D.," naming some neighbour who has not all his corn reaped.(105) In this custom the corn-spirit in the form of a mare is passed on from a farm where the corn is all cut to another farm where it is still standing, and where therefore the corn-spirit may be supposed naturally to take refuge. In Shropshire the custom is similar. "Crying, calling, or shouting the mare is a ceremony performed by the men of that farm which is the first in any parish or district to finish the harvest. The object of it is to make known their own prowess, and to taunt the laggards by a pretended offer of the 'owd mar' [old mare] to help out their 'chem' [team]. All the men assemble (the wooden harvest-bottle being of course one of the company) in the stackyard, or, better, on the highest ground on the farm, and there shout the following dialogue, preceding it by a grand 'Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!' " 'I 'ave 'er, I 'ave 'er, I 'ave 'er!' " 'Whad 'ast thee, whad 'ast thee, whad 'ast thee?' " 'A mar'! a mar'! a mar'!' " 'Whose is 'er, whose is 'er, whose is 'er?' " 'Maister A.'s, Maister A.'s, Maister A.'s!' (naming the farmer whose harvest is finished). " 'W'eer sha't the' send 'er? w'eer sha't the' send 'er? w'eer sha't the' send 'er?' " 'To Maister B.'s, to Maister B.'s, to Maister B.'s' (naming one whose harvest is _not_ finished)." The farmer who finishes his harvest last, and who therefore cannot send the Mare to any one else, is said "to keep her all winter." The mocking offer of the Mare was sometimes responded to by a mocking acceptance of her help. Thus an old man told an inquirer, "While we wun at supper, a mon cumm'd wi' a autar [halter] to fatch her away." But at one place (Longnor, near Leebotwood), down to about 1850, the Mare used really to be sent. "The head man of the farmer who had finished harvest first was mounted on the best horse of the team--the leader--both horse and man being adorned with ribbons, streamers, etc. Thus arrayed, a boy on foot led the pair in triumph to the neighbouring farmhouses. Sometimes the man who took the 'mare' received, as well as plenty of harvest-ale, some rather rough, though good-humoured, treatment, coming back minus his decorations, and so on."(106) In the neighbourhood of Lille the idea of the corn-spirit in horse form is clearly preserved. When a harvester grows weary at his work, it is said, "He has the fatigue of the Horse." The first sheaf, called the "Cross of the Horse," is placed on a cross of box-wood in the barn, and the youngest horse on the farm must tread on it. The reapers dance round the last blades of corn, crying, "See the remains of the Horse." The sheaf made out of these last blades is given to the youngest horse of the parish (commune) to eat. This youngest horse of the parish clearly represents, as Mannhardt says, the corn-spirit of the following year, the Corn-foal, which absorbs the spirit of the old Corn-horse by eating the last corn cut; for, as usual, the old corn-spirit takes his final refuge in the last sheaf. The thresher of the last sheaf is said to "beat the Horse."(107) Again, a trace of the horse-shaped corn-spirit is reported from Berry. The harvesters there are accustomed to take a noon-day sleep in the field. This is called "seeing the Horse." The leader or "King" of the harvesters gives the signal for going to sleep. If he delays giving the signal, one of the harvesters will begin to neigh like a horse, the rest imitate him, and then they all go "to see the Horse."(108) The last animal embodiment of the corn-spirit which we shall notice is the pig (boar or sow). In Thüringen, when the wind sets the young corn in motion, they sometimes say, "The Boar is rushing through the corn."(109) Amongst the Esthonians of the island of Oesel the last sheaf is called the Rye-boar, and the man who gets it is saluted with a cry of, "You have the Rye-boar on your back!" In reply he strikes up a song, in which he prays for plenty.(110) At Kohlerwinkel, near Augsburg, at the close of the harvest, the last bunch of standing corn is cut down, stalk by stalk, by all the reapers in turn. He who cuts the last stalk "gets the Sow," and is laughed at.(111) In other Swabian villages also the man who cuts the last corn "has the Sow," or "has the Rye-sow."(112) In the Traunstein district, Upper Bavaria, the man who cuts the last handful of rye or wheat "has the Sow," and is called Sow-driver.(113) At Friedingen, in Swabia, the thresher who gives the last stroke is called Sow--Barley-sow, Corn-sow, etc., according to the crop. At Onstmettingen the man who gives the last stroke at threshing "has the Sow;" he is often bound up in a sheaf and dragged by a rope along the ground.(114) And, generally, in Swabia the man who gives the last stroke with the flail is called Sow. He may, however, rid himself of this invidious distinction by passing on to a neighbour the straw-rope, which is the badge of his position as Sow. So he goes to a house and throws the straw-rope into it, crying, "There, I bring you the Sow." All the inmates give chase; and if they catch him they beat him, shut him up for several hours in the pig-sty, and oblige him to take the "Sow" away again.(115) In various parts of Upper Bavaria the man who gives the last stroke at threshing must "carry the Pig"--that is, either a straw effigy of a pig or merely a bundle of straw-ropes. This he carries to a neighbouring farm where the threshing is not finished, and throws it into the barn. If the threshers catch him they handle him roughly, beating him, blackening or dirtying his face, throwing him into filth, binding the Sow on his back, etc.; if the bearer of the Sow is a woman they cut off her hair. At the harvest supper or dinner the man who "carried the Pig" gets one or more dumplings made in the form of pigs; sometimes he gets a large dumpling and a number of small ones, all in pig form, the large one being called the sow and the small ones the sucking-pigs. Sometimes he has the right to be the first to put his hand into the dish and take out as many small dumplings ("sucking-pigs") as he can, while the other threshers strike at his hand with spoons or sticks. When the dumplings are served up by the maid-servant, all the people at table cry, "Süz, süz, süz!" being the cry used in calling pigs. Sometimes after dinner the man who "carried the Pig" has his face blackened, and is set on a cart and drawn round the village by his fellows, followed by a crowd crying, "Süz, süz, süz!" as if they were calling swine. Sometimes, after being wheeled round the village, he is flung on the dunghill.(116) Again, the corn-spirit in the form of a pig plays his part at sowing-time as well as at harvest. At Neuautz, in Courland, when barley is sown for the first time in the year, the farmer's wife boils the chine of a pig along with the tail, and brings it to the sower on the field. He eats of it, but cuts off the tail and sticks it in the field; it is believed that the ears of corn will then grow as long as the tail.(117) Here the pig is the corn-spirit, whose fertilising power is sometimes supposed to lie especially in his tail.(118) As a pig he is put in the ground at sowing-time, and as a pig he reappears amongst the ripe corn at harvest. For amongst the neighbouring Esthonians, as we have seen,(119) the last sheaf is called the Rye-boar. Somewhat similar customs are observed in Germany. In the Salza district, near Meiningen, a certain bone in the pig is called "the Jew on the winnowing-fan" (_der Jud' auf der Wanne_). The flesh of this bone is boiled on Shrove Tuesday, but the bone is put amongst the ashes, which the neighbours exchange as presents on St. Peter's Day (22d February), and then mix with the seed-corn.(120) In the whole of Hessen, Meiningen, etc., people eat pea-soup with dried pig-ribs on Ash Wednesday or Candlemas. The ribs are then collected and hung in the room till sowing-time, when they are inserted in the sown field or in the seed-bag amongst the flax seed. This is thought to be an infallible specific against earth-fleas and moles, and to cause the flax to grow well and tall.(121) In many parts of White Russia people eat a roast lamb or sucking-pig at Easter, and then throw the bones backwards upon the fields, to preserve the corn from hail.(122) But the conception of the corn-spirit as embodied in pig form is nowhere more clearly expressed than in the Scandinavian custom of the Yule Boar. In Sweden and Denmark at Yule (Christmas) it is the custom to bake a loaf in the form of a boar-pig. This is called the Yule Boar. The corn of the last sheaf is often used to make it. All through Yule the Yule Boar stands on the table. Often it is kept till the sowing-time in spring, when part of it is mixed with the seed-corn and part given to the ploughmen and plough-horses or plough-oxen to eat, in the expectation of a good harvest.(123) In this custom the corn-spirit, immanent in the last sheaf, appears at midwinter in the form of a boar made from the corn of the last sheaf; and his quickening influence on the corn is shown by mixing part of the Yule Boar with the seed-corn, and giving part of it to the ploughman and his cattle to eat. Similarly we saw that the Corn-wolf makes his appearance at midwinter, the time when the year begins to verge towards spring.(124) We may conjecture that the Yule straw, of which Swedish peasants make various superstitious uses, comes, in part at least, from the sheaf out of which the Yule Boar is made. The Yule straw is long rye-straw, a portion of which is always set apart for this season. It is strewn over the floor at Christmas, and the peasants attribute many virtues to it. For example, they think that some of it scattered on the ground will make a barren field productive. Again, the peasant at Christmas seats himself on a log; his eldest son or daughter, or the mother herself, if the children are not old enough, places a wisp of the Yule straw on his knee. From this he draws out single straws, and throws them, one by one, up to the ceiling; and as many as lodge in the rafters, so many will be the sheaves of rye he will have to thresh at harvest.(125) Again, it is only the Yule straw which may be used in binding the fruit-trees as a charm to fertilise them.(126) These uses of the Yule straw show that it is believed to possess fertilising virtues analogous to those ascribed to the Yule Boar; the conjecture is therefore legitimate that the Yule straw is made from the same sheaf as the Yule Boar. Formerly a real boar was sacrificed at Christmas,(127) and apparently also a man in the character of the Yule Boar. This, at least, may perhaps be inferred from a Christmas custom still observed in Sweden. A man is wrapt up in a skin, and carries a wisp of straw in his mouth, so that the projecting straws look like the bristles of a boar. A knife is brought, and an old woman, with her face blackened, pretends to sacrifice the man.(128) So much for the animal embodiments of the corn-spirit as they are presented to us in the folk-customs of Northern Europe. These customs bring out clearly the sacramental character of the harvest supper. The corn-spirit is conceived as embodied in an animal; this divine animal is slain, and its flesh and blood are partaken of by the harvesters. Thus, the cock, the goose, the hare, the cat, the goat, and the ox are eaten sacramentally by the harvesters, and the pig is eaten sacramentally by ploughmen in spring.(129) Again, as a substitute for the real flesh of the divine being, bread or dumplings are made in his image and eaten sacramentally; thus, pig-shaped dumplings are eaten by the harvesters, and loaves made in boar-shape (the Yule Boar) are eaten in spring by the ploughman and his cattle. The reader has probably remarked the complete parallelism between the anthropomorphic and the theriomorphic conceptions of the corn-spirit. The parallel may be here briefly resumed. When the corn waves in the wind it is said either that the Corn-mother or that the Corn-wolf, etc. is passing through the corn. Children are warned against straying in corn-fields either because the Corn-mother or because the Corn-wolf, etc. is there. In the last corn cut or the last sheaf threshed either the Corn-mother or the Corn-wolf, etc. is supposed to be present. The last sheaf is itself called either the Corn-mother or the Corn-wolf, etc., and is made up in the shape either of a woman or of a wolf, etc. The person who cuts, binds, or threshes the last sheaf is called either the Old Woman or the Wolf, etc., according to the name bestowed on the sheaf itself. As in some places a sheaf made in human form and called the Maiden, the Mother of the Maize, etc. is kept from one harvest to the next in order to secure a continuance of the corn-spirit's blessing; so in some places the Harvest-cock and in others the flesh of the goat is kept for a similar purpose from one harvest to the next. As in some places the grain taken from the Corn-mother is mixed with the seed-corn in spring to make the crop abundant; so in some places the feathers of the cock, and in Sweden the Yule Boar is kept till spring and mixed with the seed-corn for a like purpose. As part of the Corn-mother or Maiden is given to the cattle to eat in order that they may thrive, so part of the Yule Boar is given to the ploughing horses or oxen in spring. Lastly, the death of the corn-spirit is represented by killing (in reality or pretence) either his human or his animal representative; and the worshippers partake sacramentally either of the actual body and blood of the representative (human or animal) of the divinity, or of bread made in his likeness. Other animal forms assumed by the corn-spirit are the stag, roe, sheep, bear, ass, fox, mouse, stork, swan, and kite.(130) If it is asked why the corn-spirit should be thought to appear in the form of an animal and of so many different animals, we may reply that to primitive man the simple appearance of an animal or bird among the corn is probably sufficient of itself to suggest a mysterious connection between the animal or bird and the corn; and when we remember that in the old days, before fields were fenced in, all kinds of animals must have been free to roam over them, we need not wonder that the corn-spirit should have been identified even with large animals like the horse and cow, which nowadays could not, except by a rare accident, be found straying among the corn. This explanation applies with peculiar force to the very common case in which the animal embodiment of the corn-spirit is believed to lurk in the last standing corn. For at harvest a number of wild animals--hares, rabbits, partridges, etc.--are commonly driven by the progress of the reaping into the last patch of standing corn, and make their escape from it as it is being cut down. So regularly does this happen that reapers and others often stand round the last patch of corn armed with sticks or guns, with which they kill the animals as they dart out of their last refuge among the corn. Now, primitive man, to whom magical changes of shape seem perfectly credible, finds it most natural that the spirit of the corn, driven from his home amongst the corn, should make his escape in the form of the animal which is seen to rush out of the last patch of corn as it falls under the scythe of the reaper. Thus the identification of the corn-spirit with an animal is analogous to the identification of him with a passing stranger. As the sudden appearance of a stranger near the harvest-field or threshing-floor is, to the primitive mind, sufficient to identify him as the spirit of the corn escaping from the cut or threshed corn, so the sudden appearance of an animal issuing from the cut corn is enough to identify it with the corn-spirit escaping from his ruined home. The two identifications are so analogous that they can hardly be dissociated in any attempt to explain them. Those who look to some other principle than the one here suggested for the explanation of the latter identification are bound to show that their explanation covers the former identification also. But however we may explain it, the fact remains that in peasant folk-lore the corn-spirit is very commonly conceived and represented in animal form. May not this fact explain the relation in which certain animals stood to the ancient deities of vegetation, Dionysus, Demeter, Adonis, Attis, and Osiris? To begin with Dion
Sheridan. The Good Natured Man. Goldsmith. Lady of Lyons. Lytton. Becket. Tennyson. Blot in the Scutcheon. Browning. Caste. Robertson, or School. Robertson (for type of new realistic school). London Assurance. Boucicault (for reversion to 18th century comedy of manners). His House in Order. Pinero. The Magistrate. Pinero. Judah. Jones. Doll’s House. Ibsen. Pillars of Society. Ibsen. An Enemy to the People. Ibsen. Ulysses. Stephen Phillips. The Blue Bird. Maeterlinck. The Piper. Peabody. The Servant in the House. Kennedy. Strife. Galsworthy. Riders to the Sea. Synge. =Outline of Class Work.= 1. Origin and development of drama among the Greeks; study of a play from the period of their highest literary achievement. 2. Brief consideration of the forerunners of the modern English drama; (1) miracle plays, (2) moralities, (3) early English farces, (4) pre-Shakespearean drama. Examples of types (2) and (4) studied. 3. Shakespearean Drama: study of one each of the comedy and tragedy (those not studied in the regular English courses). 4. Brief review of the history of the drama from the beginning of the 17th to the end of the 18th century. Study of one of the best types of 18th century comedy. 5. Important phases of 19th century drama considered. Study of a transition type. 6. The contemporary drama; its broad range as to both matter and manner opening great possibilities—of achievement for the dramatist, of education for the audience. =Method.= In accordance with the aims as stated, the technical side of the work will, for the most part, be presented by the teacher in the form of concise notes, in order to leave as much time as possible for direct, appreciative study of plays. The collateral reading is to be used as illustrative material and for comparison. Scenes will be studied and presented by students in the classroom, with occasional public (school) presentations. Students realize dramatic values by this means. Toward the end of the term, students will be encouraged to attempt the construction of original plays or dramatization of parts of novels and stories. WRITTEN COMPOSITION. The work in composition is so planned as to draw help from the literature course, but is not based upon it. One period a week in all classes except Public Speaking and Dramatics is devoted to the work. =General Suggestions.= 1. Work from the whole to the parts; that is, begin with the whole composition, and work to the paragraph and sentence. 2. While emphasizing in different terms some one particular kind of composition, do not limit the work wholly to that form. 3. Make the course cumulative; that is, refer to and emphasize, wherever possible, principles learned in former terms. 4. In all work, oral and written, whether formal compositions, examinations or recitations, develop a feeling for organization and arrangement of thoughts. 5. Encourage expression of the student’s interest, but try to guide and broaden it. Seek to develop the power to observe accurately; also to awaken the imagination. 6. Try constantly to enlarge the student’s vocabulary. 7. Insist on correct form, neatness and promptitude. Part of the work of High School English is to form correct habits. 8. Make all criticisms constructive. Have as much personal conference as possible. NINTH YEAR. First Term. =Special Work.= 1. Composition, chiefly narrative, but no special emphasis on narrative as a form of discourse. 2. Punctuation. 3. Letter-writing. 4. Review of grammar. =Material.= Reproductions of parts of literature read, reports on outside reading, imaginative treatment of subjects suggested by the literature lesson, personal experiences. The following will suggest possible subjects: New nature myths, new hero stories, additional adventures for Ulysses, stories illustrating his various traits of character, new endings to old stories, possible settings for Homeric stories, dialogues between Homeric characters, descriptions of scenes from the Iliad from the point of view of an eye-witness, etc. =Method.= 1. Teach from the beginning correct form and habits of neatness and care. While emphasizing these, have most of the work reproductive, in order not to kill spontaneity. 2. Emphasize letter-writing toward the end of the term when the interest has been aroused in other forms of writing. Select for practice only such letters as young people would be apt to write. 3. Begin systematic training in punctuation early, and continue with the composition work throughout the term. Teach the use of the comma, quotation marks, especially in dialogue, and the terminal marks. Teach by the logical rather than by the formal method; that is, lead to the examination of the thought in sentences and to punctuation in accordance with it. 4. In review of grammar, use Hitchcock’s “Enlarged Practice Book.” Select chapters treating of the general structure of a sentence, the nature, kinds, and uses of phrases and clauses; also the exercise on common errors of speech. Adapt this work to the special needs of each class. One day a week will be taken for drill if necessary, or it may be omitted, if classes are well prepared. Second Term. Begin the study of separate forms of discourse. Teach what rhetoric is, and the reasons for studying it. =Special Work.= 1. Narration, with its involved problem of structure. 2. Continued drill on punctuation. 3. Continued drill in grammar if needed. =Method.= 1. Begin with narration. Teach during the term the essentials of a successful narrative. a. Action (something happening). b. Point (an idea, a climax). c. Unity (it must hang together). d. Style (it must be interesting and entertaining). Emphasize this kind of work while teaching narrative poetry and prose (the novel), but do not draw subjects from the literature lesson. From this term on, composition work should be original. (See Sampson & Holland’s Composition and Rhetoric for excellent suggestions on teaching narration). 2. While studying Ashmun’s “Prose Literature for Secondary Schools,” follow the general line of composition work there suggested. 3. Punctuation. Teach the use of the semicolon, colon, dash, and exclamation point, and continue drill of preceding term. 4. Simple teaching of paragraph structure; that is, the grouping of similar thoughts together by their relation to a central idea or topic. 5. Toward the end of the term a brief review of letter-writing. TENTH YEAR. First Term. =Special Work.= 1. Description, with involved problem of diction. 2. Review of letter-writing. =Method.= 1. Begin with comparative work in two kinds of description: scientific and literary; that for information and that for enjoyment. Develop this by the primary essentials of descriptive writing: a. Point of view. b. Selection of details. c. Order and grouping. d. Objective and subjective character. e. Appropriate diction. 2. Notice of differences will involve a study of diction: synonyms, especially adjectives; figures of speech (simile, metaphor, and personification); words of color, sound, motion, shape, concrete terms. 3. Use as illustrative material examples from scientific writing, text-books, books of travel, novels, verse. Whenever possible, make the literature lessons serve as models, but do not draw from them for subjects. Have all composition original. 4. Later in the term return to narration, and combine with it description of scenery and character. 5. Throw occasional compositions into the form of the friendly letter, using some of the best modern letter writers, such as Stevenson, as models. TENTH YEAR. Second Term. =Special Work.= 1. Exposition, with involved problem of clearness and order. 2. Word-work, with the purpose of enlarging the vocabulary and developing accuracy in the use of words. 3. Review of letter-writing. =Method.= 1. Connect with the preceding term’s work by showing that exposition is description which explains; which shows the general and the common rather than the particular and the individual; which omits the personal. 2. Develop the following special points: Arrangement of material. A. Gathering of ideas, either one’s own or those from standard authorities. If the latter, give directions on note-taking. B. Selection of material, according to scale of treatment. C. Making of outline. a. Key sentence or announcement of subject. b. Grouping into leading and subordinate points. c. Conclusion, with summary where advisable. Development of material (Paragraph making). Do no formal work with the paragraph except to teach the importance of the topic sentence as a means toward unity and therefore toward clearness. Insist on a clear topic sentence for each paragraph. Permit any means of development that naturally suggests itself. Encourage the attempt not only to begin paragraphs well, but to end them well. 3. Word-work. Give regular exercises once a week for the first half term on work tending to develop an interest in words and accuracy in their use; such as, exercises in defining, in synonyms (select only such as are apt to be misused), on words with interesting history. In defining insist on correct form and clear distinctions. Vary this work and select with care, so that it will be vital. It is valueless if formal and perfunctory. 4. Review briefly business letters, and such social forms (invitations, acceptances, regrets), as high school students will be apt to need. ELEVENTH YEAR. First Term. The work of the Eleventh year is cumulative, continuing practice in narration, description, and exposition, with new emphasis on style. =Method.= 1. While studying the “Idylls of the King” and “Silas Marner,” review narration and description. Insist on the observance of principles learned in earlier terms, but try to arouse an interest in style as a means of increasing effectiveness. Emphasize the difference between poetic and prose style, and the limitations of each. Note the use of figurative language in modern prose style. Try to develop the power of suggestiveness. Study the descriptions of place and character in “Silas Marner” from this point of view, and try to interest the class in attempts at imitation. 2. While studying the essay, review exposition. Insist on attention to points learned in the Tenth Year. Carry on paragraph development, with more emphasis on various kinds of paragraphs; as, transitional, summarizing, introductory, and concluding. 3. Give some attention to prose style, especially if Macaulay is being studied. Show the value of various rhetorical forms; such as the balanced sentence, loose and periodic sentences, studiously short sentences, climax, rhetorical questions, also the value of concrete terms. Try to interest students in imitating various styles. Frequent short papers, in each of which some definite point is being worked for, will bring better results both in interest and achievement than less frequent long ones. Second Term. =Special Work.= Continued review of narration, description, and exposition, with emphasis on style. =Method.= 1. Make the review of the first two forms lead up to the writing of a brief short story. Teach this at the same time the short story and novel are being studied. Begin with writing of various settings, introductions, descriptions of person and character, incidents introduced for various purposes, bits of dialogue, and lead up to the complete story. 2. While reviewing exposition, draw subjects from questions of present interest, either local or general, and occasionally from literature work. Reports on collateral reading may be used to teach the writing of a simple, interesting book review, that would lead others to read. Choose subjects here that will not lead to copying other peoples’ ideas. Reject empty, glittering generalities. 3. Have at least one longer piece of exposition this term than has been previously written, preferably on subject of public interest. Correct topical outline personally before the paper is written, showing how it may be improved. TWELFTH YEAR. First Term. =Special Work.= Argumentation with involved problem of force and tact. =Method.= 1. Study the general nature of argument, the use of exposition in argument, the difference between inductive and deductive reasoning, the difference between assertion and proof, attack and refutation. Be practical and not technical in this work. Choose subjects calculated to stimulate thought on topics of the day; draw as largely as possible from school life in order to demonstrate the value of the work. 2. Emphasize the value of structure here as well as in pure exposition. 3. Practice in writing of speeches, in whole or in parts; openings, refutations, conclusions, appeals to the feelings. 4. Show the value of appropriate style. 5. Vary the special work of the term by occasional papers on topics suggested by the literature work, provided they are of live interest and such as to provoke discussion. Second Term. =Special Work.= 1. Review of the different forms of writing taught throughout the course, to test power and to unify impressions. 2. Four longer papers than heretofore, one of each kind of discourse. 3. Briefer exercises are needed. ORAL COMPOSITION. Definite practice in oral composition extends throughout the entire course. At least once every five weeks each student talks to the class on some subject previously prepared. Increase these exercises whenever time will permit. =General Directions.= 1. Have students stand before the class, free from desks or other external support. 2. Subject matter should be prepared, but not memorized. Students may use a small card with headings, but no other notes. 3. The length of the talk may vary from two to three minutes in the Ninth Year, to five of six in succeeding terms, as ideas and ease increase. 4. Material should be drawn from subjects outside the literature lessons. Let the student’s interest determine the subject. Talks may be reproductions of newspaper or magazine articles, of parts of books, or accounts of personal experience, but the wording must be the student’s own. 5. Teachers should emphasize constantly the same principles or order and arrangement of ideas as in written work. The aim is not mere talk, but effective speech. 6. Emphasize interest of the audience as a test of success. Try to arouse an ambition to win this. Teach the gain to a speaker from erect, free posture of the body, ease of manner, command of the audience with the eye, clear enunciation, pleasant voice. 7. Criticism must be sympathetic and kindly, even when corrective. Above all try to arouse ambition to succeed and the will to persevere. NINTH YEAR. Anecdotes, stories read, reports on topics connected with Greek life may all be used. The talks may be varied by readings; for instance, selections from Stephen Phillips’ “Ulysses,” read in parts; an act of “Antigone,” or some other Greek play; poems illustrative of the work being studied, or similar work bearing no relation to the literature lessons. The aim is to develop ease and self possession in standing before the class, and interest in trying to hold an audience. TENTH YEAR. =Material.= Accounts of interesting things seen or done; descriptions of famous events, places of men; accounts of anything of current interest. Try by the search for live material to broaden the students’ interests and to make them more generally intelligent. This may be helped by having suitable subjects for talks submitted every week, even although time will not permit practice in talking that often. ELEVENTH YEAR. =Material.= Continue the work of the preceding year, with greater emphasis on subjects of present interest. Seek to encourage intelligent reading of newspapers by reports on current events. More frequent practice may be obtained by sometimes combining the oral composition work of the second term with the literature work. Reports on authors and works read outside of class, literary pilgrimages to interesting places in America, occasional readings may all be utilized. TWELFTH YEAR. =Material.= Every Monday throughout the year have reports at the beginning of the period, (1) on events of importance of the preceding week outside of the United States; (2) in the United States outside of California; (3) in California, especially local events of importance. Insist on discriminating selection and judicious condensation. Have subjects of importance expanded into special talks. Use also throughout the year reports on topics suggested by the literature work. HISTORY. The work in this department has a two fold purpose, namely, training and information. In the first place, the subject is taught with a view to developing breadth of vision, judgment, and an understanding of cause and effect in human affairs. Secondly, the aim is to enable the student better to understand the conditions and problems of the present day by knowing their historical connections. The work is conducted with the constant realization that the highest use of history is to prepare young people to discharge intelligently their many duties as citizens in a democracy. The courses in the department are as follows: =General History.= For 9th and 10th grade pupils. =Ancient History.= For 9th grade pupils. =Mediaeval and Modern History.= For 10th grade pupils. =English History.= For 11th grade pupils. =United States History and Civics.= For 12th grade pupils. =Economics.= For 11th and 12th grade pupils. General History. This course presents, in the simplest way, an outline of the history of our civilization, from its origin to the present day. It aims to help the pupil to understand the causes, geographical, racial, etc., that have led to the rise and decline of nations, and to appreciate the services that these peoples have rendered to mankind. Much attention is given to the great characters of history. An especial effort is made to know the origin and history of existing nations, and to realize that the present is an outgrowth from the past. The course is useful also in helping the pupil to grasp the time and place of the characters and events that he meets in literature and science, and thus it supplies a background for his other studies. Ancient History. The courses in Ancient History and in Medieval and Modern History together cover the same ground as the course in General History, but do so more thoroughly and with much greater detail. They are recommended to those who expect to take at least three years of History in the high school. The course in Ancient History covers the period from the dawn of history to 800 A. D. It is designed to give the pupil some knowledge of the origin of our civilization. After a short discussion of prehistoric beginnings, a brief study is made of the ancient oriental peoples. The major part of the course is devoted to the history and civilization of Greece and Rome, with especial reference to their influence on the life of the present day. Medieval and Modern History. The course in Medieval and Modern History covers the period from A. D. 800 to the present, and is a continuation of the course in Ancient History. Its purpose is to trace the continued development of our modern civilization, and to understand the origin and character of the nations of today. Attention is devoted to economic and social conditions, as well as to political events. Especial emphasis is placed upon the period since Napoleon Bonaparte. A study is made of the governments of the principal European nations, and contemporary problems are discussed in the light of their history. Considerable use is made of current newspapers and periodicals. English History. The fundamental principles of our American government, the idea of local independence, of jury trial, of representation, are traced back to English institutions; showing at the same time that these privileges are the result of the persistent contest waged for over six hundred years, which struggle, in fact, is still going on. The conditions in Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and on the Continent of Europe are discussed in connection with the constitutional development, and the economic, political, social, and religious conditions in England. The British Empire is studied in its relation to the other nations of the world, and in the economic and political condition of its colonies and subjects. United States History and Civics. The study of the earliest period is planned to show that the work of discovery and exploration has been going on for over four centuries and is still in progress. Economic, political, and religious conditions in Europe are discussed, and related to conditions in America. During the colonial period the principles and the traits which characterized us now as a nation were developed. The importance of the idea of local independence maintained by the colonists against the idea of imperialism held by England is discussed, and followed by a consideration of the significant facts of the Revolution and the process by which the loose confederation of states became the constitutional republic, tending toward a vigorous national growth. The problems of transportation, the removal of the Indians, the disposal of the public lands, the struggle of free and of slave labor for the control of the territories, the Civil War; these subjects and others related to them are treated, bearing in mind that today the United States is no longer in isolation, but linked to other nations. The study of the Constitution of the United States, and of the actual workings of the city, state, and national governments, is designed to bring out clearly that the citizen today has new duties and new responsibilities; that the intelligent citizen should be informed concerning the tariff, the trusts, the labor unions, equal suffrage, the peace movement, and other current questions. The Constitution of the State of California, and the Charter of the City of Oakland are given special attention, and visits are made to the City Council, the Board of Supervisors, the Courts, and the State Legislature. Economics. Economics deals with the social activities and institutions that result from men’s efforts to procure a livelihood. It studies the means by which nations become rich, and the effects of riches upon the public welfare. The policies of modern government have so much to do with economics that an understanding of economic laws is essential to wise citizenship. The aim of this course is to teach enough of accepted economic theory to enable the student to understand the laws that govern the larger economic questions of today. Mere abstract theories, however, are avoided. A study is made of the evolution of industrial society and the application of economic laws. Emphasis is laid upon the study of consumption, i. e., the best expenditure of the personal and public incomes, and on such dominant questions as Labor, Tariff, Monopolies, Socialism, Taxation. The student is led to realize that as the industrial and economic life of today is the outgrowth of past tendencies, so the wise solution of present vexed economic questions will determine the economic character of the decades to come. Moreover, it is believed that the study of economics, while dealing with matters of great practical importance, tends also to quicken the love of justice and to encourage sanity and moderation of view concerning the value of material wealth. MATHEMATICS. NINTH YEAR. Elementary Algebra. Mechanical skill and accuracy of expression in the formal language of Mathematics are the things emphasized in the first year of Algebra. The course is designed to cover sufficient ground so that the student who studies Algebra for only one year will be able to handle the algebraic processes involved in problems of computation in Geometry and to manipulate formulae, in order that he may read intelligently the popular publications on mechanics. To this end special attention is paid to graphical methods of representation, to the solutions of simple equations in which the unknown may be represented by any letter, and to the solution of the quadratic equation, by the formula method as well as by factoring. Stress is laid upon accuracy of expression, and upon the knowledge of processes, that this elementary work may afford a proper foundation for all future work in Mathematics. Factoring is taught by means of type forms and rules, which the students are required to learn. The following are the subjects considered: four fundamental operations, linear equations, type product forms, factors, fractions, fractional equations, ratio and proportion, quadratic equations, functionality, simultaneous linear equations (graphical solution), simplification of simple surds. The quadratic equation is used to develop the idea of a variable and of a function of a variable, and to teach graphical methods of solving equations. Stress is laid upon the practical application of the graph to the solution of every day problems. TENTH YEAR. Plane Geometry. Usual theorems and constructions, original exercises, problems of computation. ELEVENTH YEAR. Algebraic Theory. First Term. The object of this course is to introduce the student to the Theory of Mathematics; therefore the demonstration of principles is insisted upon. A rigorous treatment of simple laws is required. The course is designed to meet the needs of two classes of students: those who are preparing for the Engineering Course at the University, and those who, while they are not preparing for college, wish to do advanced work in Mathematics and to acquire a broader knowledge of Algebra than that obtained in the first year. It also prepares the students for the Courses in Trigonometry and Solid Geometry that are to follow. For the benefit of those students who are not preparing for the University and are not studying mathematics for its own sake, a special effort is made to make the content of the course as rich as possible; that is, to select topics that afford material for mathematical thinking and at the same time have vocational value. The following are the subjects considered: factors, remainder theorem, factor theorem, fractions, fractional and negative indices, surds, and complex quantities (graphic treatment), theory of quadratic equations, graphs, simultaneous equations, proportion and variation, logarithms. Second Term. Either Solid Geometry or Trigonometry. These subjects are begun but once a year. All students finishing two and a half years’ work in Mathematics may take whichever course is offered in the second half of their third year. Original work and solution of practical problems required. TWELFTH YEAR. First Term. Either Solid Geometry or Trigonometry. Second Term. This course is a continuation of the work in Algebraic Theory designed especially for engineering students and for others who wish to continue advanced work. The student who is pursuing Mathematics for its vocational value and who does not intend to go to the University need not elect it, since the first term of Algebraic Theory, with Solid Geometry and Trigonometry, will give him sufficient equipment. The following topics are studied: synthetic division, simultaneous quadratic equations, special methods for higher equations, determinants, mathematical induction, binomial theorem, summation of series. SCIENCE. =Physical Geography.= Regularly a ninth year subject. Time: 7 or 8 periods per week. First Term. A study of land forms based on field excursions to points easily accessible afoot or on the street cars. Soil formation and conservation. A study of the physical features of California with their economic consequences, particularly the determination of the routes of railroads, the choice and construction of harbors, quartz and placer gold mining, the development of water power and long-distance electric transmission, lumbering, irrigation, agriculture, horticulture, etc. Tarr’s New Physical Geography, pages 13–172, liberally supplemented by the use of reference books, lantern slides, relief models and topographic maps. Wright’s Manual of Physical Geography. Second Term. A study of the simpler elements of weather and climate based on astronomic and other observations and on certain physical and chemical experiments. A study of the great wind belts of the world and regions of excessive, moderate, or deficient rainfall, locating each regionally in the continents. The climatic regions of the United States with particular reference to temperatures, prevailing winds, and rainfall—each as modified by physiographic features and by large bodies of water. A regional study of the United States with particular reference to milling, stock feeding, dairying, slaughtering and packing, iron, coal, lumber. Centers of manufacture with a consideration of methods and lines of transportation both by land and sea, particularly of the transcontinental lines which reach the Pacific Coast. Possible changes on the Pacific Coast due to the opening of the Panama Canal. Tarr’s New Physical Geography, pages 1–12 and 173–430, supplemented by the use of reference books, individual full-mounted globes, wall maps, weather maps, and excursions to the Chabot Observatory and the United States Weather Bureau. Wright’s Manual of Physical Geography. =Botany.= Regularly a tenth year subject; but may be taken in the ninth year. Time: 8 periods per week, including double laboratory periods. Laboratory and recitation periods are arranged to suit the topic under consideration. The text used in Bergen’s Essentials of Botany. In the main, the order of topics as there given is followed. More experiments in plant physiology are taken than are outlined in the text, and some time is devoted to the study of oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and carbon, including the chemistry of combustion. About 24 weeks are devoted to the study of seed plants, and 18 weeks to spore plants. Enough time is devoted to the study of the classification of seed plants to enable a pupil to use a key readily. An herbarium is not required; but the necessary instruction is given, and the pupil is encouraged in the preparation of one if he shows interest in this kind of work. In the study of spore plants particular attention is given to bacteria, yeasts and molds in their relation to household affairs. =Zoology.= Regularly an eleventh year subject. Time: 7 or 8 periods per week, including double laboratory periods. It is expected that only one class will be organized in each year, this class to begin with the fall term. First Term. Invertebrate zoology, with comparative study of typical forms, e. g., amoeba, paramoecium, sponge, hydra, sea-anaemone, starfish, earthworm, shrimp, crab, etc. Special attention is given to beneficial and injurious insects. Second Term. Vertebrate zoology, with comparative study of human anatomy and physiology. Detailed laboratory study of the anatomy of the frog. Text-books: Jordan, Kellogg and Heath’s =Animal Studies=, both terms; Conn and Budington’s =Advanced Physiology=, second term. =Physiology, Hygiene and Sanitation.= Regularly an eleventh year subject. Time: 7 or 8 periods per week, including double laboratory periods. The course is intended to contribute as much as possible toward healthful living. The study of structure and function is made the basis of an intelligent appreciation of the principles of hygiene. The conception of the body as a mechanism which requires new materials of definite kinds to replace worn out parts, and which also requires a constant supply of energy to enable it to do its work is made the basis of the study of food materials and the principles of dietetics. The course concludes with a study of the nature of infectious and contagious diseases and the means by which they are communicated; and domestic and public sanitation. Text-books: Conn and Budington’s =Advanced Physiology= and Brown’s =Physiology for the Laboratory=. =Chemistry.= Regularly an eleventh year subject. Previous preparation should include at least one-half year of algebra; but the chemistry may be taken without it. Time: 7 or 8 periods per week, with double laboratory periods. General Chemistry. The subject essentially as presented in McPherson and Henderson’s =Elementary Study of Chemistry= and =Laboratory Exercises in Chemistry= by the same authors. Household Chemistry. This is alternative with the general course in the second half year. The work of the first half year is the same as in the general course. The course in household chemistry is intended for girls, and substitutes the chemical problems and processes of the home for those of the mine, the smelter, and the metallurgical and chemical industries in general. Large use is made of a reference library of works in the chemistry of cooking, cleaning and sanitation. Blanchard’s =Household Chemistry= is used as a laboratory guide. The credit toward graduation and the college entrance credit is the same for the household chemistry as for the general course. =Physics.= Brief Course. Regularly a twelfth year subject. Minimum preparation, 8 units, including first year algebra and the first term of plane geometry. Time: One period daily for one year. Credit: One unit. This course fulfils the requirements in science for admission to the College of General Culture, the College of Commerce, and the General Course in Agriculture of the University of California, and for similar courses in other universities. It emphasizes the qualitative aspects of phenomena, omits the more difficult mathematics of the subject, takes fewer quantitative laboratory experiments and devotes less time to practical applications than the full course does. Astronomical topics are introduced here and there as they fit into the regular order of the work. Full Course. Regularly a twelfth year subject. Minimum preparation: 10 units, including first year algebra and plane geometry. Time: 3 single periods and 2 double periods per week in the first half year; 2 single periods and 3 double periods per week in the second half year. Credit: One and one-half units. The full course is prescribed in the fourth year for all pupils preparing for the Colleges of Mechanics, Mining, Civil Engineering, Chemistry, and the Technical Course in Agriculture of the University of California, and for similar courses in other universities. It is elective for all other pupils who have the necessary preparation. The full and the brief courses are given in separate classes, in either or both terms, when the number of students enrolled necessitates the organization of more than one class in the work of the term. When the classes are not thus divided, the pupils in the full course will take the work with the brief course class 5 periods per week, and will take additional work as a separate class 2 periods per week in the first term, and 3 periods per week in the second term. Text-books: Coleman’s =Text-book of Physics=, and Coleman’s =New Laboratory Manual of Physics=. University Admission Requirements in Science. The University of California requires for admission at least one science given in the third or fourth year of the high school course. Physiology, Zoology, Chemistry, or Physics fulfils this requirement; Botany does not, but it receives regular admission credit as an elective subject. When Botany is offered together with any one of the other sciences, both receive admission credit, the one as an elective, the other as the prescribed third or fourth year science. GREEK. TENTH YEAR. First Term. First Greek Book. White. Second Term. First Greek Book. White. ELEVENTH YEAR. First Term. Xenophon’s Anabasis. Bks. I and II. Greek Grammar. Goodwin. Beginner’s Greek Composition. Collar & Daniell. Second Term. Xenophon’s Anabasis. Bks. III and IV. Greek Grammar. Goodwin. Beginner’s Greek Composition. Collar & Daniell. TWELFTH YEAR. First Term. Homer’s Iliad. Bks. I-III. Goodwin’s Grammar. Composition. Collar & Daniell. Second Term. Homer’s Iliad. Bks. IV-VI. Goodwin’s Grammar. Beginner’s Greek Composition. Collar & Daniell. LATIN. NINTH YEAR. First Term. =D’Ooge’s Latin for Beginners.= Lessons I-XLV. Gradatim for sight reading. Second Term. =D’Ooge’s Latin for Beginners.= Lessons XLVI-LXXVIII. Book completed. Gradatim for sight reading. TENTH YEAR. First Term. =Second Year Latin. Greenough, D’Ooge and Daniell.= =Part One.= 75 pages of stories, fables, mythology, biography, including Life of Caesar. Composition based on the above. =Grammar.= Allen & Greenough. Second Term. =Second Year Latin. Greenough, D’Ooge and Daniell.= =Part Two.= 100 pages from “=Caesar’s Gallic Wars=.” Bks. I-VII. D’Ooge’s Composition to accompany “Second Year Latin.” =Grammar.= Allen & Greenough. ELEVENTH YEAR. First Term. =Cicero.= Any Standard Edition. The Conspiracy of Catiline. Four orations for translation
. Where a house once had stood there now was only a gaping, burned-out hole. “Why, the place is all gone except its foundation!” Veve exclaimed. “The house must have burned a long while ago, and never was rebuilt.” The only building to be seen was a long, low shed in which cherries were sorted and packed for market. Stepping to the open doorway, the girls peered inside. A bent old man, his back toward them, busily packed cherries into a big box. He whirled around upon hearing footsteps. And a shaggy white dog that had been dozing in a corner, sprang up with a warning snarl. Startled, Veve and Connie retreated. “Down, Cap!” the old man ordered the animal. To the girls he said: “Don’t be afraid. He won’t bite you or anyone else. I keep him on the place to frighten off intruders. His bark, though, is all bluff.” Thus reassured, Veve and Connie stood their ground. They rather liked the old man who looked like a farmer in blue overalls and white shirt. His face was friendly and his eyes twinkled as he studied them. “I’m Pa Hooper,” he introduced himself. “What may I do for you young ladies?” Now this made Connie and Veve feel quite at ease. And even Cap tried to show them that they were welcome, for he came sniffing at their heels. “We saw your sign,” Veve said, going directly to the point. “We would like a job picking cherries.” As Mr. Hooper kept studying her, not saying a word, she told him about the Brownie organization. And Connie added that Mr. Wingate next door had sent them away most rudely. “We may not be experienced pickers, but we can learn,” she declared. “Just give us a chance and we’ll prove what Brownies can do.” Pa Hooper was greatly impressed with the direct approach of the two little girls. He told them he very much needed pickers because some of the larger orchards had hired most of the Mexican pickers. Unless his fruit could be harvested quickly, he might lose a large portion of it. “Then are we hired?” Veve questioned. Still Mr. Hooper hesitated. “I scarcely know what to say,” he told her kindly. “Cherry picking isn’t as easy as it looks. You might fall from a ladder and hurt yourself. In that case, I’d be liable.” “Brownies are taught to be careful,” Veve assured him. “You wouldn’t catch us falling off a ladder!” Pa Hooper chuckled. “I pay a cent and a half a pound for stripping,” he explained. “That’s not as good a rate as some of the orchards offer. It takes a lot of cherries to weigh a pound.” “We won’t mind,” Connie said. “Please, Mr. Hooper, let us try! The trees aren’t high, and you could let us pick the lower branches.” The orchard owner thought a moment. Then he said: “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Suppose I test you with a half hour’s picking? If you do well, and think you would like the work, then I might hire all the Brownies. How many are there of you?” “Six, not counting Miss Gordon,” supplied Veve. “Where do we start?” Mr. Hooper said he would show the girls as soon as he had finished packing another lug. The box was a fancy one, filled with especially large cherries. Other boxes in the shed were “jumble” pack. This, Mr. Hooper explained, meant that the fruit was not placed in any particular order. After he had finished sorting cherries for the fancy box, the orchard owner told the girls to follow him. Mr. Hooper led them to a low-hanging tree near the roadway. Two short ladders already were in place. The orchard owner showed the girls how to strip cherries rapidly from the trees. Even if a few stems fell into the pail, it would not matter, he said. Once the cherries reached the canning factory, they would be washed and stemmed. “I’ll be back here in half an hour,” Mr. Hooper said. He handed each girl a tall tin bucket. “Just be careful. Don’t climb more than a few steps on the ladders.” Veve and Connie mounted separate ladders. At first they went up only three steps. It was easy to reach the fruit. “Let’s have a race,” Veve proposed. “I can pick more cherries than you, Connie!” Both girls stripped as fast as they could. But try as they would, they could not make the fruit fall into the pail as fast as Mr. Hooper had done. When Connie’s bucket was half filled, she began to feel a little tired. “It’s getting late,” she remarked uneasily. “I wish Mr. Hooper would come back.” The girls had seen one Rosedale bus pass the orchard, and they knew another soon would be due. Unless they started for home very shortly they were afraid their parents would worry. “Oh, here comes Mr. Hooper now,” Veve announced a little later. She felt very much relieved. “We’ve picked a lot of cherries,” Connie said proudly. “Do you suppose he’ll think we have done all right?” Veve nodded and stretched her cramped arms. For a moment she stood quite still on the fifth step of the ladder. From her perch, she could gaze directly across the roadway into the Wingate orchard. Apparently, something the little girl saw there startled her. At any rate, she twisted around to obtain a better view. Now in doing so, Veve’s right arm came sharply against the half-filled pail of cherries. It teetered and started to fall. Frantically, the little girl clutched to save the bucket. But her hand missed. Down clattered the tin pail, spilling cherries in every direction! Nor was that the extent of the disaster. In working convulsively to save the precious fruit, Veve had thrown the ladder off balance. For a moment it wobbled and swayed. Then, as she uttered a wild yell, it slipped sideways, hurling her to the ground. CHAPTER 3 Over the Fence “Are you hurt, Veve?” Connie scrambled down from her own ladder to help her little friend up from the ground. Veve brushed dirt from her Brownie uniform and picked up the beanie which had fallen from her head. Ruefully she gazed at the spilled cherries. Scarcely a handful remained in the tin bucket. “Oh, I’m all right,” she muttered, rubbing an elbow. “But see what happened! Now Mr. Hooper won’t want the Brownies to pick in his orchard.” Even as she spoke, the orchard owner hurried up, Cap barking at his heels. From a distance, he had seen Veve tumble from the ladder. He was afraid she might have been injured. “Didn’t I warn you to be careful?” he asked a trifle crossly. “If you had broken an arm--” “You don’t have to be liable for my fall,” Veve assured him. “I’m not hurt a bit.” Hurriedly she began to pick up the scattered cherries. “We tried so hard,” Connie said. She felt quite crushed by the disaster. “I--I guess we aren’t very good pickers.” Pa Hooper patted her shoulder. “You’ve done well for the first time,” he said, peering into her pail. “It was just an accident. They will happen sometimes, despite precautions.” “Then you think we’re good enough to get the job for the Brownies?” Veve demanded. Pa Hooper’s words had revived her hope. Before the orchard owner could reply, Cap gave a little yip to attract attention. Then he sat up and begged, waving his two front paws. Veve and Connie had to laugh. Cap looked very cute, and seemed to be coaxing his master into saying that the girls might have the cherry picking job. “So you think I should, eh, Cap?” chuckled Pa Hooper. “That does it, old boy. We’ll hire the Brownies! The entire troop!” “Whoopee!” shouted Veve. She capered around so madly she nearly upset Connie’s pail of cherries. “Careful now,” warned Pa Hooper, rather sternly. “Cherry picking is serious business. If you work here you’ll have to obey orders and not act the fool. Furthermore, you’ll have to use the short ladders. I can’t risk having you fall from the top of a tree.” “We’ll do exactly as you say,” Veve promised. Because she couldn’t curb her high spirits, she broke into a snatch of a Brownie song: “We snip and paste and hammer too, To aid folks young and old. And after all our work and play, A story we will tell. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! The Brownies are with you to stay!” “I hope the Brownies do stay and prove to be good pickers,” Mr. Hooper said, sighing. “I’ve had plenty of trouble with the crop this season.” “What sort of trouble, Mr. Hooper?” inquired Connie. “Well, as I said, the larger orchard owners have hired nearly all of the professional pickers. I’m supposed to have a crew coming in tomorrow, but they may fail me. And my fruit is ripening fast.” Mr. Hooper gazed thoughtfully up into a cherry tree as he spoke. The fruit nearly all was bright red and so plump it looked as if it might burst. The orchard owner took Connie’s pail of cherries to the shed for weighing. “You’ve picked four pounds,” he said. “That’s six cents. After you’ve practiced awhile, you’ll find you can strip the trees three times as fast.” Pa Hooper told the girls that a professional picker usually made from six to ten dollars a day. The Brownies, of course, never could hope to earn that much. Instead of paying Connie for the cherries she had picked, Mr. Hooper wrote her name on a card and the amount that was due. “This is your account,” he said. “If you’re a good picker and stick to it, the sum should grow and grow like Jack’s beanstalk.” Then and there, both Connie and Veve made up their minds to be the fastest pickers in the Rosedale Brownie troop. They scarcely could wait to return home to relate their good news! “Be at the orchard early in the morning if you want to get a good start,” Mr. Hooper urged. “At least by seven o’clock.” Now, as a rule, Connie and Veve scarcely had their breakfasts by that hour. You may be sure, though, that they didn’t tell the orchard owner. Instead, they merely nodded and promised to be on hand. The girls felt quite happy as they trudged to the bus stop. Their arms ached from such fast picking, and Veve had several cherry juice stains on her pinchecked dress. But they were pleased to have obtained a promise of work. “We should make a lot of money for the troop,” Veve declared as they waited for their bus. “What if Miss Gordon shouldn’t let us pick?” Connie asked anxiously. “After all, she only told us to find out about the job. Not to take it.” “And it will be hard getting the Brownies to the orchard by seven o’clock,” Veve added. “Mr. Hooper really needs our help though. If he doesn’t get pickers soon, his crop will be lost. When the Brownies hear about that, I’m sure they’ll want to pitch in.” “Sure, they will,” Veve agreed confidently. “If they don’t, we’ll make ’em!” The arrival of a city-bound bus brought the talk to an end. During the ride into Rosedale, Veve had little to say. After awhile, Connie noticed her companion’s unusual silence. “What’s the matter with you anyhow, Veve?” she demanded. “Tired?” “Not very.” “Then what is wrong?” “Nothing,” Veve said in a tone which meant just the opposite. “Aren’t you glad we got the job?” “Of course! Only--” “Only what, Veve?” “Well, I was wondering if Mr. Hooper will treat the Brownies right.” “Treat them right?” Connie couldn’t understand what Veve meant. “Why, he agreed to pay a cent and a half a pound. That must be a fair price, even if some of the larger orchards pay two cents.” “Oh, I didn’t mean money, Connie. I was wondering if Mr. Hooper will beat the Brownies if they make mistakes.” “Beat them! Whoever heard of such a thing! He wouldn’t dare!” “Well, he might.” Connie stared at her little friend, who now was etching a face on the dusty bus window. “What ails you, Veve?” she asked. “Didn’t you like Mr. Hooper?” “’Course, I did.” “Then what put such a thought into your head? He wouldn’t hurt anyone.” “Maybe not,” Veve admitted, “but some of the orchard owners beat their pickers.” Connie had become a bit annoyed. She was quite certain Veve had no reason for making such remarks. “How do you know?” she demanded. “Because I _saw_ it.” “You _saw_ it?” Connie echoed in disbelief. “Well, I didn’t. And I’ve been with you every minute this afternoon.” Veve smoothed wrinkles from her skirt. “I saw it from the tree,” she revealed. “That was what made me fall. I was so startled.” “You must have been looking over into Carl Wingate’s orchard. What did you see, Veve?” “Mr. Wingate struck Juan with a stick, Connie. I saw it plainly. He hit him hard too.” The information worried Connie, even though she knew the Brownies never would pick cherries in the Wingate orchard. “Mr. Wingate is a cruel man,” she declared. “I’m surprised that the Mexicans pick for him even if he does pay two cents a pound instead of only a cent and a half.” “You see now why I fell out of the tree,” Veve defended herself. “I wasn’t awkward. You’d have tumbled too if you’d seen what I did!” Connie told her little friend that she thought it would be wise not to alarm the Brownies by repeating the story. If they heard about Juan being whipped, they might refuse to pick for Pa Hooper. “And he isn’t in the least like Carl Wingate,” she declared. The bus now had reached a familiar street. Veve and Connie alighted to walk to their homes. However, because they were in such haste to tell Miss Gordon the good news, they stopped at a drugstore to telephone her. Pa Hooper’s offer surprised the Brownie leader very much. At first, she hesitated and declared she hardly knew what to say about the girls taking on the picking job. “Mr. Hooper really needs our help,” Veve urged. “And think how much money we will make for the troop.” Finally, the Brownie leader gave her consent. She said she would telephone each girl personally. If parents were willing, the troop would meet at Miss Gordon’s home the next morning at six-thirty sharp. From there they would drive in the Brownie leader’s car to the cherry orchard. “Be sure to wear old clothing,” she warned Veve and Connie. “Cherry picking could be very hard on Brownie uniforms.” The two girls were jubilant as they hung up the receiver. If Miss Gordon called the other Brownies, the cherry picking job was assured! “We’ll have a lot of fun at Mr. Hooper’s orchard,” Connie declared gaily. “I like him so much.” “He’s a queer one though.” “Queer?” Connie considered Veve’s remark most strange. “He must be a hermit or a miser or something, living all alone at the orchard.” “How do you know he does, Veve?” “He sleeps in the packing shed.” Veve was proud that she had made the observation. “I saw his cot in one corner of the room. He had an electric plate too where he cooks his food.” “Well, I suppose he has to stay there, because he has no house.” “That’s another strange thing, Connie. His home must have burned down a long time ago. Why didn’t he rebuild it?” “Maybe he didn’t have the money. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to.” Veve had been reading mystery books and considered Connie’s explanation entirely too matter-of-fact. “That isn’t it at all,” she insisted. “Mr. Hooper must have a special reason for not rebuilding his house. While we’re picking cherries at his orchard, I intend to learn all about it!” CHAPTER 4 “Tail-ender” At six-thirty the next morning, six sleepy-eyed Brownies were at Miss Gordon’s home, ready to drive to the cherry orchard. Eileen was the last to arrive. Usually she did not arise until eight o’clock and so felt a little cross. “I don’t see why we have to get up so early,” she grumbled. All the girls wore blue jeans instead of dresses, for Miss Gordon had warned them that frocks might be ruined by fruit stains. The Brownie leader had packed enough lunch for everyone, and had filled a thermos jug with hot chocolate. “All aboard for Pa Hooper’s orchard!” she called, herding the girls into her car. “Time to get started if we’re to arrive there by seven o’clock.” During the ride to the orchard, the Brownies asked Veve and Connie dozens of questions about the work they were to do. Everyone except Eileen thought it would be great fun. When Miss Gordon was less than a half mile from Pa Hooper’s place, her car was passed by a truck. Mexican workers were leaning over the high sideboards. Seeing the Brownies, they laughed and shouted, and waved their hands. “They must be pickers for the Wingate place,” Connie declared. She had glimpsed Juan, the little Mexican boy, among the group. A few minutes later, the Brownies saw the truck turn in at the orchard. Miss Gordon drove her own car into Pa Hooper’s place. As the girls tumbled out, they noticed only a few persons picking cherries some distance from the packing shed. “Well, you did come after all!” Pa Hooper exclaimed, walking over to the group. “I need pickers. Ready to start in?” “Oh, yes!” Veve agreed. “We want to earn a lot of money.” The orchard owner laughed and said that would depend entirely upon how steadily the girls kept at their picking. “It’s easy the first hour,” he declared. “After that--well, we’ll see how you hold up.” Then and there the Brownies made up their minds that even though the job was hard, they would not give up! Mr. Hooper led the girls to a group of nearby trees. Each Brownie received a pail and was shown exactly how to strip a branch. “Pick clean and don’t bruise the fruit,” he instructed. “When your pail is filled, weigh in at the shed.” The orchard owner told the girls to strip only the lower tree branches. He said he could not risk having them fall from the stepladders, and so would leave the higher picking for older persons. After Mr. Hooper had gone to the shed, the Brownies fell to work with a will. At first the cherries thudded into the tin pails, making a tinkling sound. Soon the bottoms of the buckets were covered. “I have almost two inches of cherries in my pail!” Rosemary called after a few minutes. “Oh, I’m ahead of you,” laughed Jane, who was picking in the next tree. Hearing the report, Veve began to strip at a faster rate, for she was far behind. She had stopped too often to sample a cherry and to look around. Seeing a clump of especially large cherries directly overhead, the little girl reached for them. Her hand touched something which was dark-green in color and very slimy. With a squeal of dismay, Veve pulled back. The pail of cherries nearly dropped from her hand. But she managed to save it. “O-oh, see this horrid creature on the tree!” she exclaimed. “Ugh! It gives me the creeps.” The other Brownies and Miss Gordon, who were picking close by, came over to look. “Why, it’s only a harmless little slug,” the Brownie Scout leader laughed. “One frequently finds them amid the foliage.” Miss Gordon plucked the leaf which the creature had been eating. Half of the soft leaf tissue had been nibbled away, leaving ribs and veins exposed. “Orchard owners control slugs by spraying with arsenate of lead,” she told the girls. “Somehow, this fellow escaped.” “I don’t want to pick on this tree any more,” Veve said. “’Fraid cat!” teased Sunny Davidson. “I am not!” Veve denied. “I just don’t like slugs.” The other girls laughed and told her she would have to stick to her own tree. Veve went back to work but she kept looking at the foliage before she touched it. She did not see another slug. When Mr. Hooper presently came to the orchard to see how the Brownies were doing, Veve remarked that she thought the trees needed spraying. “Why, bless you!” the orchard owner chuckled. “Already they’ve been sprayed four times. I put on one early in the season to control scale insects. Then I sprayed a second time just before the blossoms opened up. Since then the trees have had two extra treatments.” Veve was amazed that so much work was required to keep the orchard in good condition. “It’s a never-ending battle,” Mr. Hooper sighed. “One has to fight leaf spot, brown rot and the fruit fly, to mention only a few troubles.” After the orchard owner had returned to the shed, the Brownies picked steadily for a while. Then Rosemary shouted that her pail was filled. She was far ahead of the other girls. “My bucket is full too,” announced Miss Gordon. “Come, Rosemary, shall we be the first to weigh in?” Everyone began to pick very fast, not wanting to be a tail-ender. Soon Connie was ready to have her fruit weighed. Jane’s pail next was filled. Both girls were proud to have done so well. After that, Eileen and Sunny finished their picking in rapid order. “Veve’s the tail-ender!” teased Jane. She whirled around fast and her jeans caught on a strand of wire attached to the fence. As the little girl pulled away, she heard a tearing sound. A long jagged hole had been torn in the leg of her almost-new jeans. “Oh, now see what I’ve done!” she exclaimed. “My knee shows right through!” “That comes from picking so fast,” declared Veve. Actually, Jane had not been stripping the tree at the moment of the accident. Near tears, Jane hastened to the shed to show Miss Gordon the torn place. Veve followed her, although her pail was not quite filled. In the shed, Pa Hooper had just finished weighing in the cherries and noting down the amount on cards. When he saw Veve’s pail, he shook his head. “Only three-quarters filled?” he asked. “Now, it’s a waste of time to weigh in less than a full pail.” “Mine will be full next time,” Veve assured him. She really meant it too. Miss Gordon told Jane she would sew up the tear in the jeans during the lunch hour. “I have a sewing kit in my car,” she said. “Also a first aid kit. But I hope and trust we’ll not need the latter.” “Will it soon be lunch time?” Rosemary asked. Already she was growing hungry. “Why, we’ve scarcely started to pick,” laughed Miss Gordon. After Pa Hooper had weighed all the fruit, the Brownies returned to their posts. Soon their arms began to ache from reaching up into the branches. And as the sun rose higher and higher, they became very warm. However, the Brownies were good sports and not afraid of hard work. No one wanted to be the first to complain or quit, so they all kept on. But everyone, even Miss Gordon, picked at a slower pace. Veve became very thirsty. Now and then she would eat a cherry or two. “No wonder you can’t keep up with the rest of us,” Connie scolded her. “You stop so often to eat.” Veve knew she deserved the lecture, for she found it hard to keep her mind on work. She liked to watch the other pickers and to glance now and then over into the Wingate orchard to see what was going on there. By eleven-thirty the Brownies were so hungry they declared they were nearly famished. They were certain they could not wait another minute for lunch. “We’ll weigh in and open up the hamper,” Miss Gordon decided. “My! I wonder if I packed enough lunch?” All of the Brownies except Veve quickly went to the shed to have their cherries weighed. “Coming, Veve?” asked Miss Gordon. “In a minute,” the little girl answered. She did not have many cherries in her pail and was ashamed to have either the Brownies or Mr. Hooper see how poorly she had done. While the others were in the shed, Veve picked as fast as she could. Even so, her bucket was not half filled. She was still working when the girls trooped out of the shed again. “Do come along, Veve!” Miss Gordon called. “We’re having our lunch now.” Veve climbed down from the stepladder and walked slowly toward the shed. The Brownies already were at the car, removing the lunch hamper and thermos jug. They planned to eat under a shady oak in the front yard. “Hurry up, slow-poke!” Jane shouted. “You won’t get anything to eat if you don’t.” Without going to the shed, Veve covered her pail with a handkerchief, and joined her friends. “Haven’t you weighed in your cherries?” Connie asked her as she helped to spread a tablecloth under the oak tree. “I’ll do it later,” Veve mumbled. She knew Pa Hooper would not accept a half bucket of cherries. He had told her twice to fill the container to the brim before bringing it in. “It doesn’t matter how many cherries anyone picked,” said Miss Gordon quickly. “The important thing is we’re doing useful work and earning money for our troop.” “How much have we earned already?” Eileen asked eagerly. Miss Gordon said she had not kept accurate account, but she was certain it amounted to several dollars. The morning work had made the girls very hungry. Although the Brownie leader had prepared two sandwiches for each person, it did not seem enough. Veve bolted hers in a twinkling and so did Sunny. The chocolate disappeared equally fast. “Oh, dear, I’m still hungry,” moaned Sunny. “I could eat anything--anything, that is, except cherries.” Her remark made Veve think of a little joke. “What’s worse than biting into a worm?” she asked the Brownies. “What could be worse?” demanded Connie. “Biting into half a worm!” The Brownies did not laugh very hard at Veve’s joke. During the morning picking, nearly everyone had bitten into at least one worm. It had not been a pleasant experience. “I’m so hungry, I could even go for a worm,” added Veve, just to make the girls shudder. “Say, whose car is that?” She had noticed a familiar blue sedan turning into the driveway. “Why, that’s our car!” cried Connie, leaping to her feet. “It’s Mother!” Now the Brownies were very surprised and pleased to see Mrs. Williams. Eagerly, they swarmed about the car. “Having fun?” Connie’s mother asked. “Oh, yes!” the girls told her. They really were, too. Connie had spied two large covered baskets on the back seat of the automobile. “What are in these?” she demanded. “Oh, those!” smiled her mother. “I thought the girls might want a little more lunch. I baked a cake and made potato salad. But if you’ve already had too much, I can take them home.” The Brownies all hooted in protest at such a proposal. “You leave those baskets right here!” laughed Connie. “I should say so!” echoed Eileen. “I could eat an entire cake myself,” added Jane. The Brownies carried the baskets to the big oak tree. There, upon the tablecloth, they spread out an array of delicious looking food. Besides cake and salad, Mrs. Williams also had brought cheese and pickles. Veve helped herself to a large piece of cake. “I’m thirsty,” she announced when she had finished the last crumb. The thermos bottles were empty. Veve thought she would try to find a pump. “There’s one back of the shed,” Miss Gordon told her. “The water, though, tastes of mineral. You’ll find better water at the spring.” “And where is that, Miss Gordon?” “Only fifty feet from the entrance gate. Just follow the road.” The Brownie leader pointed out the direction. Not wishing the other girls to see the contents of her cherry pail, Veve carried it with her. After she had trudged a short distance along the dusty road, she found the spring. A cool stream of water flowed out of a small pipe. But someone was there ahead of Veve. She saw at once that it was Juan, the little Mexican boy. He had been washing his hands under the stream of water piped from the hillside. One of them seemed to be scratched, for it was bleeding. “Why, what’s the matter?” Veve asked anxiously. Juan glanced up and grinned, his lips parting to show a double row of even, white teeth. “Nothing, _Senorita_,” he replied. His tone was most polite. Veve felt quite grownup to be called a senorita, which she knew was a Mexican word for “Miss.” It worried her, though, to see that Juan’s hand had been deeply scratched and bruised. “How did you hurt your hand?” she asked. “Wingate.” Juan answered briefly. Veve was horrified. “You mean he cut you?” she gasped. “No, Senorita. He shoved me and I stumbled into the wire fence.” “Oh, Juan! How could he be so mean?” The Mexican boy shrugged his thin shoulders. “Wingate has an evil temper. He treats all of his pickers mean--but he hates me worse than the others. Often he beats me.” “I know! I saw him strike you with a stick only yesterday. Why do you work for him?” “The pickers have a contract,” Juan explained. But he added darkly, “We may break it. _Si!_ If we leave before the fruit is harvested, then he will be sorry!” “I should think so,” agreed Veve soberly. “Juan, wait here! I am going to get Miss Gordon’s first aid kit and wrap up your hand.” She ran to the car for the materials she needed--cotton, gauze, iodine and tape. Returning to the spring, she dressed the cut as Miss Gordon had shown the Brownies how to do, and taped on the bandage. The finished job did not look too neat, but Juan said it was fine and made his hand feel better. He seemed very grateful. “How do you like stripping cherries?” he inquired. “Does the orchard owner beat you if you damage the fruit?” “Oh, no! Mr. Hooper is very nice. All the Brownies like him.” Juan had glanced at Veve’s nearly empty pail. “How many pounds a day can you pick?” he asked. “I’ve filled my bucket almost three times this morning.” Juan did not say anything, but from the way he smiled, Veve knew he did not think she had picked very many cherries. “Here,” he said, a moment later. Before Veve could prevent it, he picked up his own filled bucket and dumped cherries into hers until it was ready to overflow. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!” she exclaimed. “Mr Wingate won’t like it.” “Who cares for that old goat?” scoffed Juan. “He has no friends. Hooper, his own relative, dislikes him--and for good reason too. _Si!_” “Are Hooper and Wingate relatives?” Veve asked in astonishment. Before Juan could answer, he heard his name angrily called. Mr. Wingate stood at the entrance to the orchard, gazing toward the spring. “You, Juan!” he shouted. “Stop loafing, and get back to work!” “_Si, Senor_,” the little Mexican boy muttered. Picking up his nearly empty pail, he smiled again at Veve, and ambled up the road. Back at the Hooper orchard, the Brownies had finished their lunch and were ready to resume their picking. “Where’s Veve?” Jane demanded impatiently. “She’s always late. She hasn’t even weighed in her last picking.” “That’s because she didn’t have enough cherries to turn in,” said Eileen. Veve came up to the oak tree just in time to hear the last remark. “Who says I haven’t any cherries?” she demanded, offering her pail in proof. “Full to the brim!” The Brownies were amazed. They had been so certain that Veve’s bucket was nearly empty. “How did you get so many cherries so quickly?” Connie asked suspiciously. “When I last saw your pail--” “Oh, I’m a fast picker,” laughed Veve. Then, because she knew a Brownie had to be honest, she added: “Well, maybe I had some help!” The girls plied her with questions. Finally, after she had tantalized them, Veve told about her meeting with the Mexican boy. “One can’t blame the Mexican pickers for thinking of leaving if they are mistreated,” remarked Miss Gordon when she heard Juan’s conversation repeated. “However, I hope they don’t. If the pickers should go away from the area before the fruit is marketed, it would be most serious for all of the orchard owners.” The Brownies now were well fed, rested, and ready to return to their work. Connie’s mother was sorry she had not worn old clothes so that she too might help. “Perhaps I’ll come again tomorrow,” she declared. “That is, if it doesn’t rain.” The sky had become slightly overcast. Although it did not look as if it would rain very soon, a storm appeared in the offing. While the other Brownies returned to their trees, Veve went to the shed to have her cherries weighed. “You did very well,” Pa Hooper praised as he marked the poundage on her card. “Guess you’re finally getting the trick of it.” Veve flushed and decided then and there that during the afternoon she would keep her mind on her work. “Oh, Mr. Hooper,” she said suddenly. “Is Carl Wingate any relation to you?” The orchard owner nearly dropped the lug of fruit he was carrying out to load into a truck. “What made you ask that?” he demanded. He did not seem very pleased by the question. “I just wondered.” “Someone put you up to it! Carl Wingate is my cousin. Now get back to your picking and don’t be pestering me with questions.” Pa Hooper spoke almost crossly. Veve could not understand why her question had annoyed him. She remembered though, that Juan had said something about the orchard owner disliking Carl Wingate. She meant to learn more about it before the Brownies were through with the cherry picking. However, she would have to bide her time. Pa Hooper, she could plainly see, had no intention of revealing any secrets. CHAPTER 5 The Brownies Lend a Hand Veve awoke the next morning to the sound of rain on the roof. For a moment she lay quite still, wondering if it were time to get up. “Oh, dear!” the little girl thought. “This means there will be no cherry picking today.” Veve was not too disappointed, however. For when she rolled over in bed, her shoulders ached and so did the muscles of her legs. She felt as if she could sleep a thousand years. Just then, her mother called from downstairs: “Time to get up, Veve! It’s after nine o’clock!” Nine o’clock! When Veve heard that, she rolled out of bed and began
to reprove me, a while since, for my uncharity. 'Tis passing strange how we women can find pleasure in giving pain to the man we love; while if he suffered from any other cause we would gladly die to relieve him! 'Twould seem a cruel trait in a woman's character--and I do trust that I am not cruel! But I must admit that when I greeted Don Pedro, on his return, with added cordiality, it was nothing in his dark, eager countenance that set my heart beating--but rather the glimpse I had caught of a bitten lip, a knotted brow, and a pair of woeful gray eyes gazing out to sea. Repentance came speedily, however. There was that in the Spaniard's manner that aroused my sleeping doubts of him; and I soon fell silent and sought to be alone. My gallant gentleman had withdrawn himself in a pique, and, in the company of old Captain Baulk and the lad Poole, seemed to have wholly forgotten my existence. I made Dame Barbara sit beside me, and, feigning headache, leaned my head upon her shoulder and closed my eyes. The dame rocked herself gently to and fro, and from time to time gave vent to smothered prayers and doleful ejaculations that set my thoughts working upon my own misdoings. Through my half-shut eyes I saw the sun go down behind the strip of shore, and watched the blue skies pale to faintest green and richest amber. A little flock of white cloudlets, swimming in the transparent depths, caught fire suddenly and changed to pink flames, then glowed darkly red like burning coals, and faded, finally to gray ashes in the purpling west. "Lord, have mercy on our sinful hearts!" groaned Dame Barbara softly. "Amen!" I sighed, and wondered what ailed mine, that it could be so very wicked as to add to the burden of anxiety that my dear love had to bear! A few tears stole from under my half-closed lids, and I was very miserable and forlorn, when suddenly I felt a hand laid upon mine. I looked up hastily, and saw the face of my gallant gentleman, very grave and penitent, in the fast-deepening twilight. My heart gave a glad leap within my bosom; but I puckered my lips woefully and heaved a mighty sigh. "Thank you, dear Dame, for your kind nursing," I said to Barbara. "Truly, I know not what I should do without your motherly comforting at times." Mr. Rivers took my hand, and drew me gently away, saying: "See what a bright star hangs yonder, above the sombre shores!" I glanced at the glittering point of light, and then, over my shoulder, at the shadowy decks. The Spaniard was not in sight, and only the bent figure of the dame was very near. My dear love raised my fingers to his lips. "Forgive me, sweetheart, for being so churlish--but you cannot know the fears that fill me when I see that man's dark face gazing into yours, and realize that we are utterly in his power." "Surely he would not harm me!" I said, hastily. "'Tis that he may learn to love you," said Mr. Rivers gravely. "He may spare himself the pain of it!" I cried. "Have you not told him that we are betrothed?" "Aye, love--but he may lose his heart in spite of that. What wonder if he does? The miracle would be if he could look upon your face unmoved." "Am I so wondrous pretty, then?" "Fairer than any woman living!" he declared. I knew well enough it was a tender falsehood, but since he seemed to believe it himself it was every whit as satisfactory as if it had been truth! "Be comforted," I whispered, reassuringly. "I know very well how to make myself quite homely. I have only to pull all my curls back from my brow and club them behind: straightway I will become so old and ugly that no man would care to look me twice in the face. Wait till to-morrow, and you will see!" A laugh broke from Mr. Rivers's lips, and then he sighed heavily. "Nay, sweetheart, if it be the head-dress you assumed one day some months ago for my peculiar punishment, I pray you will not try its efficacy on the Spaniard; for it serves but to make you the more irresistible." But already I have dwelt longer upon myself and my own feelings than is needful for the telling of my tale. I must hasten on to those happenings that more nearly concerned Mr. Rivers. Yet, in looking backward, I find it hard to tear my thoughts from the memory of that last hour of quiet converse with my dear love, under the starlit southern skies. How seldom we realize our moments of great happiness until after they have slipped away! It seemed to me then that we were in the shadow of a dark-winged host of fears; but now I know that it served only to make our mutual faith burn the more brightly. I did not, thereafter, neglect Mr. Rivers's warning, and avoided the Spaniard as much as possible. My dear love lingered always at my elbow, and replied for me, in easy Spanish, to all the courteous speeches of Don Pedro. Sometimes I think it would have been far better had he left me to follow my own course. There are some men who need only a hint of rivalry to spur them on where of their own choice they had never thought to adventure. Melinza's attentions did not diminish, while his manner toward Mr. Rivers lost in cordiality as time went on. CHAPTER V. Among the Spaniard's followers was a young mulatto whom he called "Tomas." Very tall and slight of figure was he, yet sinewy and strong, with corded muscles twining under the brown skin of his lean young limbs. He wore a loose shirt, open at the throat, with sleeves uprolled to the shoulder; and his short, full trousers reached barely to the knee. I was admiring the agile grace of the lad as he bestirred himself upon the deck the last morning of our voyage. With him young Poole (clothed once more like a Christian, in borrowed garments) was engaged in the task of shifting a great coil of rope; and the sturdy, fair-skinned English youth was a pretty contrast to the other. Don Pedro was standing near to Mr. Rivers and myself, and his eyes took the same direction as our own. "They are well matched in size," said he, pointing to the lads. "Let us see which can bear off the palm for strength." He called out a few words in Spanish to the young mulatto, who raised his dark head--curled over with shiny rings of coal-black hair--and showed a gleaming row of white teeth as he turned his smiling face toward his master. Mr. Rivers spoke a word to Poole, and the boy blushed from brow to neck, and his blue eyes fell sheepishly; but he stood up against the other with a right good will, and there was not a hair's difference in their height. At a signal from Don Pedro the lads grappled with each other; the brown and ruddy limbs were close entwined, and with bare feet gripping the decks they swayed back and forth like twin saplings caught in a gale. In the first onset the mulatto had the best of it; his lithe dark limbs coiled about his adversary with paralyzing force: but soon the greater weight of the English youth began to tell; his young, well-knit figure straightened and grew tense. I saw a sudden snarl upon the other's upturned face. His short, thick upper lip curled back upon his teeth as a dog's will when in anger. He rolled his eyes in the direction of his master, who threw him a contemptuous curse. Stung into sudden rage, the mulatto thrust forth his head and sank his sharp white teeth in the shoulder of young Poole. There was a startled cry, and the English youth loosened his grasp. In another moment the two figures rolled upon the deck, and the flaxen head was undermost. "Foul play!" cried Mr. Rivers, springing forward to tear the lads apart; for now the mulatto's fingers were at his opponent's throat. Melinza's hand flew to his sword; with a volley of oaths he interposed the shining blade between Mr. Rivers and the writhing figures on the floor. Quick as thought another blade flashed from its sheath, and the angerful gray eyes of my betrothed burned in indignant challenge. I had looked on in dumb amaze; but at the sight of the naked weapons I screamed aloud. Instantly the two men seemed to recollect themselves. They drew back and eyed each other coldly. "_Hasta conveniente ocasion, caballero!_" said the Spaniard, returning his sword to its scabbard, and bowing low. "_A la disposicion de vuestra señoria, Don Pedro_," replied my betrothed, following his example. And I, listening, but knowing no word of the language, believed that an apology had passed between them! The scuffle on the deck had ceased when the swords clashed forth, and the lads had risen to their feet. Melinza turned now to young Tomas and struck him a sharp blow on the cheek. "Away with you both!" said the gesture of his impatient arm; but I believe his tongue uttered naught but curses. All of our English had appeared upon the deck, and when Melinza strode past them with a scowl still upon his brow they exchanged meaning glances. Captain Baulk shook his grizzled head as he approached us. "What have I always said, Mr. Rivers"----he began; but my betrothed looked toward me and laid a finger on his lip. Afterward they drew apart and conversed in whispers. What they said, I never knew; for when Mr. Rivers returned to my side he spoke of naught but the dolphins sporting in the blue waters, and the chances of our reaching San Augustin ere nightfall. "So," I thought, "I am no longer to be a sharer in their discussions, in their hopes or fears. I am but a very child, to be watched over and amused, to be wiled away from danger with a sweetmeat or a toy! And truly, I have deserved to be treated thus. But now 'tis time for me to put away childish things and prove myself a woman." I had the wit, however, not to make known my resolutions, nor to insist on sharing his confidence. I leaned over the vessel's side and watched the silver flashing of the two long lines of oars as they cut the waves, and I held my peace. But in my heart there was tumult. I had seen the glitter of a sword held in my dear love's face!--and I grew cold at the memory. I had coquetted with the man whose sword it was!--and that thought sent hot surges over my whole body. I shut my eyes and wished God had made them less blue; I bit my lip because it was so red. I had not thought, till now, that my fair face might bring danger on my beloved. He stood at my side, so handsome and so debonair; a goodly man to look upon and a loyal heart to trust; not over-fervent in matters of religion, yet never soiling his lips with a coarse oath, or his honour with a lie! As I glanced up at him, and he bent down toward me, I suddenly recalled the disloyal caution of our father Abraham when he journeyed in the land of strangers; and I thought: "Surely must God honour a man who is true to his love at any cost of danger!" So passed the day. It was evening when we crossed the bar and entered Matanzas Bay. The setting sun cast a crimson glow over the waters; I thought of the blood of the French martyrs that once stained these waves, and I shuddered. Outlined against the western sky was the town of San Augustin,--square walls and low, flat roofs built along a low, green shore. The watch-tower of the castle fort rose up in menace as we came nearer. Upon the deck of the Spanish galley, hand in hand, stood my love and I. "Yonder is----our destination," said Mr. Rivers. "Our prison, you would say," I answered him, "and so I think also. Nevertheless, I would rather stand here, at your side, than anywhere else in this wide world--_alone_!" He smiled and raised my fingers to his lips. "Verily, dear lady, so would I also." There was a rattle of heavy chains, and a loud plash as the anchor slipped down in the darkening waters. CHAPTER VI. We were received by the Spanish Governor immediately after our landing. I had already pictured him, in my thoughts, as a man of commanding presence, with keen, dark eyes set in a stern countenance; crisp, curling locks--such as Melinza's--but silvered lightly on the temples; an air of potency, of fire, as though his bold spirit defied the heavy hand of time. 'Twas therefore a matter of great surprise to me--and some relief--when, instead, I beheld advancing toward us a spare little figure with snow-white hair and a pallid face. His small blue eyes blinked upon us with a watery stare; his flabby cheeks were seamed with wrinkles, and his tremulous lips twitched and writhed in the shadowy semblance of a smile: there was naught about him to suggest either the soldier or the man of parts. He was attired with some pretension, in a doublet of purple velvet with sleeves of a lighter color. His short, full trousers were garnished at the knee with immense roses; his shrunken nether limbs were cased in silken hose of a pale lavender hue, and silver buckles fastened the tufted purple ribbons on his shoes. On his breast was the red cross of St. James--patent of nobility; had it not been for that and his fine attire he might have passed for a blear-eyed and decrepit tailor from Haberdashery Lane. I plucked up heart at the sight of this little manikin. "Can this be the Governor and Captain-General of San Augustin?" I whispered in the ear of my betrothed. "'Tis not at the court of _our_ Charles only that kissing, or promotion, goes by favour!" was his answer, in a quick aside. Then he met the advancing dignitary and responded with grave punctilio to the suave welcome that was accorded us. Melinza's part was that of master of ceremonies on this occasion. He appeared to have laid aside his rancour, and his handsome olive countenance was lightened with an expression of great benignance when he presented me to the Governor as--"_the honourable and distinguished señorita Doña Margarita de Tudor_." I looked up at Mr. Rivers with an involuntary smile. "My betrothed, your Excellency," he said simply, taking me by the hand. The blear-eyed Governor made me a compliment, with a wrinkled hand upon his heart. I understood no word of it, and he spoke no French, so Mr. Rivers relieved the situation with his usual ease. This audience had been held in the courtyard of the castle, which is a place of great strength,--being, in effect, a square fort built of stone, covering about an acre of ground, and garrisoned by more than three hundred men. We stood in a little group beneath a dim lamp that hung in a carved portico which appeared to be the entrance to a chapel. Captain Baulk and the rest were a little aloof from us; and all around, at the open doors of the casemates, lurked many of the swarthy soldiery. Suddenly light footsteps sounded on the flagged pavement of the chapel in our rear, and a tall, graceful woman stepped forth and laid her hand upon my shoulder. Through the delicate folds of black, filmy lace veiling her head and shoulders gleamed a pair of luminous eyes that burned me with their gaze. She waved aside the salutations of the two Spaniards and spoke directly to me in a rich, low voice. The sight of a woman was so welcome to me that I held out both hands in eager response; but she made no move to take them: her bright eyes scanned the faces of our party, lingering on that of my betrothed, to whom she next addressed herself, with a little careless gesture of her white hand in my direction. Mr. Rivers bowed low, and said, in French: "Madame, I commend her to your good care." Then to me: "Margaret, the Governor's lady offers you the protection of her roof." His eyes bade me accept it, and I turned slowly to the imperious stranger and murmured: "Madame, I thank you." "So!" she exclaimed, "you can speak, then? You are not dumb? I had thought it was a pretty waxen effigy of Our Lady, for the padre here," and she laughed mockingly, with a glance over her shoulder. Another had joined our group, but his bare feet had sounded no warning tread. The sight of the coarse habit and the tonsured head struck a chill through me. Two sombre eyes held mine for a moment, then their owner turned silently away and re-entered the chapel door. Melinza was standing by, with a gathering frown on his forehead. "Such condescension on your part, Doña Orosia, is needless. We can provide accommodations for all our English guests here in the castle." "What! Would Don Pedro stoop to trick out a lady's boudoir?--Nay, she would die of the horrors within these gloomy walls. Come with me, child, I can furnish better entertainment." I turned hastily toward my dear love. "Go!" said his eyes to me. Then I thought of Barbara, and very timidly I asked leave to keep her by me. "She may follow us," said the Governor's lady carelessly, and sharply clapped her hands. Two runners appeared, bearing a closed chair, and set it down before us. "Enter," said my self-elected guardian. "You are so slight there is room for us both." In dazed fashion I obeyed her, and then she followed me. I thought I should be crushed in the narrow space, and the idea of being thus suddenly torn away from my betrothed filled me with terror. I made a desperate effort to spring out again; but a soft, strong hand gripped my arm and held me still, and in a moment we were borne swiftly away from the courtyard into the dark without. I wrung my hands bitterly, and burst into tears. "_O cielos!_ what have we here?" cried the rich voice, petulantly. "'Tis not a waxen saint, after all, but a living fountain! Do not drown me, I pray you. What is there to weep for? Art afraid, little fool? See, I am but a woman, not an ogress." But 'twas not alone for myself that I feared: the thought of my dear love in Melinza's power terrified me more than aught else,--yet I dared not put my suspicions into words. I tried hard to control my voice as I implored that I might be taken back to the fort and to Mr. Rivers. "Is it for the Englishman, or Melinza, that you are weeping?" demanded my companion sharply. "Madame!" I retorted, with indignation, "Mr. Rivers is my betrothed husband." "Good cause for affliction, doubtless," she replied, "but spare me your lamentations. Nay, you may _not_ return to the fort. 'Tis no fit place for an honest woman,--and you seem too much a fool to be aught else. Here, we have arrived----" She pushed me out upon the unpaved street, then dragged me through an open doorway, across a narrow court filled with blooming plants, and into a lighted room furnished with rich hangings, and chairs, tables, and cabinets of fine workmanship. I gazed around me in wonder and confusion of mind. "How does it please your pretty saintship? 'Tis something better than either Padre Ignacio's hut or Melinza's galley, is it not? Are you content to remain?" "Madame," I said desperately, "do with me what you will; only see, I pray you, that my betrothed comes to no harm." "What should harm him?" she demanded. "Is he not the guest of my husband?" "His guest, madame, or his prisoner?" She gave me a keen glance. "Whichever rôle he may have the wit--or the folly--to play." I wrung my hands again. "Madame, madame, do not trifle with me!" "Child, what should make thee so afraid?" I hesitated, then exclaimed: "Señor de Melinza bears him no good will--he may strive to prejudice your husband!" The Governor's wife looked intently at me. "Why should Melinza have aught against your Englishman?" I could not answer,--perhaps I had been a fool to speak. I dropped my face in my hands, silently. Doña Orosia leaned forward and took me by the wrists. "Look at me!" she said. Timidly I raised my eyes, and she studied my countenance for a long minute. "'Tis absurd," she said then, and pushed me aside. "'Tis impossible! And yet----a new face, a new face and passably pretty. Oh, my God, these men! are they worth one real heart pang? Tell me," she cried, fiercely, and shook me roughly by the shoulder, "has Melinza made love to you already?" "Never, madame, never!" I answered quickly, frightened by her vehemence. "Indeed, their quarrel did not concern me. 'Twas about two lads that had a wrestling-match upon the galley. And although they were both angered at the time, there may be no ill feeling between them now. I was foolish to speak of it. Forget my imprudence, I pray you!" But her face remained thoughtful. "Tell me the whole story," she said; and when I had done so she was silent. I sat and watched her anxiously. She was a beautiful woman, with a wealth of dark hair, a richly tinted cheek, glorious eyes, and a small, soft, red-lipped, passionate mouth--folded close, at that moment, in a scornful curve. Suddenly she rose and touched a bell. A young negress answered the summons. Doña Orosia spoke a few rapid words to her in Spanish, then turned coldly to me. "Go with her; she will show you to your apartment, and your woman will attend you there later on. You must be too weary to-night to join us at a formal meal, and your wardrobe must be somewhat in need of replenishing. To-morrow you shall have whatever you require. I bid you goodnight!"--and she dismissed me with a haughty gesture of her white hand. The chamber that had been assigned to me--which I was glad to share with the good Dame Barbara--was long and narrow. There was a window at one end that gave upon the sea; and through the heavy barred grating, set strongly in the thick casement, I could look out upon the low sea-wall, and, beyond that, at the smooth bosom of the dreaming ocean, heaving softly in the quiet starlight, as though such a sorrow lay hidden in its deep heart as troubled even its sleep with sighs. If I pressed my face close against the bars I could see, to the left of me, the ramparts of the castle, where my dear love was. The slow tears rose in my eyes as I thought that this night the same roof would not shelter us, nor would there be the same swaying deck beneath our feet. While we had been together no very real sense of danger had oppressed me; but from the first hour of our parting my heart grew heavier with forebodings of the evil and sorrow which were yet to come. CHAPTER VII. At first all seemed to go well enough. The Governor's lady was fairly gracious to me; old Señor de Colis was profuse in his leering smiles and wordy compliments, none of which I could understand; I saw Mr. Rivers and Melinza from time to time, and they seemed upon good terms with each other: but I did not believe this state of affairs could last,--and I was right in my fears. One night ('twas the twenty-second of June, and the weather was sultry and oppressive; the sea held its breath, and the round moon burned hot in the hazy sky) the evening meal was served in the little courtyard of the Governor's house, and both Mr. Rivers and Melinza were our guests. This was not the first occasion on which we had all broken bread at the same board; but there was now an air of mockery in the civilities of Melinza,--he passed the salt to my betrothed with a glance of veiled hostility, and pledged him in a glass of wine with a smile that ill concealed the angry curl of his sullen red lip. 'Twas a strange meal; the memory of it is like a picture stamped upon my brain. From the tall brass candlesticks upon the table, the unflickering tapers shone down upon gleaming damask and glistening silver, and kindled sparks amid the diamonds that caught up the folds of lace on the dark head of Doña Orosia, and that gemmed the white fingers clasping her slow-moving fan. Hers was a beauty that boldly challenged men's admiration and exacted tribute of their eyes. The white-haired Governor paid it in full measure, with a fixed and watery gaze from beneath his half-closed lids, and a senile smile lurking under his waxed moustache. But whenever I glanced upward I met the eyes of Mr. Rivers and Don Pedro turned upon me; and I felt a strange thrill made up, in part, of triumph that my dear love was not to be won from his allegiance, and in part of terror because there was that in the Spaniard's gaze that betokened a nature ruled wholly by its hot passions and a will to win what it craved by fair means or by foul. I could eat little for the heat and the pungent flavour of strange sauces, so I dallied with my plate only as an excuse for lowered eyes; and, although I listened all the while with strained attention, the talk ran by too swiftly for me to grasp any of its meaning. [Illustration: "TO THE BRIGHTEST EYES AND THE LIPS MOST WORTHY OF KISSES!"--_Page 55._] But Doña Orosia was neither deaf nor blind; her keen black eyes had noted every glance that passed her by. With a deeper flush on her olive cheek, and a prouder poise of her haughty head, she made to me at last the signal for withdrawal. The three gentlemen, glasses in hand, rose from their seats; and, as we passed beneath the arched trellis that led away from the paved court into the fragrant garden, Don Pedro lifted his glass to his lips with a gesture in our direction, and exclaimed in French: "To the fairest face in San Augustin! To the brightest eyes and the lips most worthy of kisses! May the light of those eyes never be withdrawn from these old walls, nor the lips lack a Spanish blade to guard them from all trespassers!" The Governor, who understood not the French words, lifted his glass in courteous imitation of his nephew's gesture; but Mr. Rivers coloured hotly and set down his upon the table. "I like not your toast, Señor Melinza, whichever way I construe it. The face I hold fairest here shall leave San Augustin the day that I depart; and, since it is the face of my promised wife, it needs no other sword than mine to fend off trespassers!" He, too, spoke in French; and as the words passed his lips I felt the soft, strong hand of Doña Orosia grasp my arm and drag me backward among the screening vines, beyond the red light of the tapers, where we could listen unseen. Melinza was laughing softly. "Señor Rivers says he cannot construe my toast to his liking; but perhaps if I give it him in the Spanish tongue he may find the interpretation more to his taste!" Then he lifted his glass again and slowly repeated the words in his own language, with a meaning glance toward the Governor. The old man drained his goblet to the dregs, and then turned a flushed face upon the Englishman and laid his hand upon his sword. My dear love had no thoughts of prudence left,--for Melinza's words had been a direct charge of cowardice,--so for all answer he took the frail goblet from the table and threw it in the younger Spaniard's face. There was a tinkle of broken glass upon the stone pavement, and Melinza wiped the red wine from his cheek. Then he held up the stained kerchief before the eyes of my dear love and spoke a few words in his softest voice. An angry smile flickered over the countenance of my betrothed; he bowed stiffly in response. The blear-eyed Governor broke in hotly, with his hand still upon his sword; his dull eyes narrowed, and the blood mounted higher in his wrinkled cheek: but his nephew laid a restraining hand upon his arm, and, with another laughing speech and a profound bow to Mr. Rivers, pointed toward the door. I saw the three of them depart through the passageway that led to the street entrance. I heard the creak of the hinges, and the clang of the bars as they fell back into place. Then a strong, sweet odour of crushed blossoms turned me faint. I loosed my hold of the screening vines and stepped backward with a sudden struggle for breath. The woman beside me caught my arm a second time and drew me still farther away down the moonlit path. "Is he aught of a swordsman, this fine cavalier of thine?" she demanded, grasping my shoulder tightly and scanning my face with her scornful eyes. Then my senses came to me: I knew what had happened--what was bound to follow; and I began to speak wildly and to pray her to prevent bloodshed between them. I scarce know what I said; but the words poured from my lips, and for very despair I checked them not. I told her of my orphan state--of that lone grave in Barbadoes, and the sad young mother who had died of a broken heart; I spoke of the long, long journey over seas, the love that had come into my life, and the dreams and the hopes that had filled our thoughts when we reached the fair, strange shores of this new country; and I prayed her, as she was a woman and a wife, to let no harm come to my dear love. "Ah! madame," I cried, "a face so fair as yours needs not the championship of one English stranger, who holds already a preference for blue eyes and yellow hair. I grant you that he has a sorry taste; but oh! I pray you, stop this duel!" She loosed her hand from the clasp of mine, and looked at me a moment in silence; then she laughed bitterly. "Thou little fool! Thou little blue-eyed fool! What do men see in that face of thine to move them so? A painter might love thee for the gold of thy hair, thy white brow, and thy blue eyes,--they would grace a pictured saint above a shrine,--but for a man's kisses, and such love as might tempt him to risk his very life for thee,--_cielos_! it is more than passing strange." Then, as I stood dumb before her, she tapped me lightly on the cheek. "Go to! Art such a fool as to think that _either_ sword will be drawn for _my_ beauty's sake?" CHAPTER VIII. That night I had but little sleep. About an hour after midnight there was a great stir in the house and the sound of opening doors and hurrying footsteps. The unwonted noises terrified me. I leaned against the door, with a heart beating thickly, and I listened. What evil tidings did those sounds portend? There was a loud outcry in a woman's voice,--the voice of Doña Orosia. I felt that I must know what havoc Fate had wrought in the last hours. I looked at Barbara--she slumbered peacefully on her hard pallet; the moonlight, streaming through the barred window, showed me her withered face relaxed in almost childlike peacefulness. I would not rouse her,--'twas a blessed thing to sleep and forget; but _I_ dared not sleep, for I knew not what would be the horror of my waking. With my cheek pressed close against the door I waited a moment longer. Perhaps only those planks intervened 'twixt me and my life's tragedy! I laid my hand upon the latch. I feared to know the truth,--and yet, if I did not hear it, I must die of dread. Slowly I turned the key and raised the bars: the door swung open. I stepped out upon the balcony that overhung the court and I looked over. There was no one in sight; the white moonlight lay over everything, and a strong perfume floated up from the flowers in the garden beyond. I crept down the stair and stood still in the centre of the empty court. Voices sounded near me, but I knew not whence they came. Trembling still, I moved toward the passage that led to the outer door, and I saw that it was bright as day. The door stood ajar. Those who had last gone out had been strangely forgetful--or greatly agitated. Scarce knowing what I did, I crossed the threshold and hurried down the street in the direction of the fort. A group of three men stood upon the corner. At the sight of them I paused and hid in the shadow of the wall; but, one of them turning his face toward me, I recognized Captain Baulk, and, going quickly forward, I laid my hand upon his arm. "How is he? Where have they taken him?" I whispered. "What! is't Mistress Tudor? Have they turned you adrift, then? Lor', 'tis a frail craft to be out o' harbour such foul weather!" "How is he?" I repeated, tightening my grasp upon his sleeve. "Dead as a pickled herring, poor lad!" My head struck heavily against the wall as I fell, but I made no outcry. "Sink me! but the poor lassie thought I meant Mr. Rivers!" I heard the old sailor exclaim as he dropped on his knees beside me,--and the words stayed my failing senses. "Whom did you mean?" I gasped. "Young Poole has been done to death, Mistress Margaret. As honest a lad as ever lived, too,--more's the pity!" I struggled to raise myself, crying: "What do you tell me? Have they killed the lad in pure spite against his master? And where is Mr. Rivers?" They made me no answer. "He is dead, then! I knew it, my heart told me so!" "Eh! poor lass! 'Tis not so bad as that--yet bad enough. They've hung chains enough upon him to anchor a man-o'-war, and moored him fast in the dungeon of the fort. D--n 'em for a crew o' dastard furriners!--an' he own cousin to an English earl!" "Can you not tell me a straight tale?" I cried. "What has he done to be so ill served? And whose the enmity behind it all,--Melinza's, or the Governor's?" "Lor'!" exclaimed one of the sailors, "the young Don is past revenge, mistress. If he lives out the night 'tis more than I look to see." "Here, now, let me tell the tale, lad,"
_) the official language of the Church being different from that of the people; (_b_) the slackness and refusal of the Church in providing services and sermons in a language which the people understood. Between the middle of the eighth and ninth centuries Latin was the language only of the learned and officials; the mass of the people ceased to understand it. Latin was sacrosanct, and to address God in any other language was profane. Hence the Church lost its spiritual hold upon the masses. "The hungry sheep looked up and were not fed." So serious was the situation that Charlemagne summoned five Councils at five different places, the most Southern being Arles, and ordered the Bishops to use the vulgar tongue in the instruction of their flocks. From this it is clear that the Bishops and Clergy were bilingual, but deliberately abstained from adopting in their pastoral work a language which their people could understand; even the Bible was a closed book. The heretics, on the contrary, were most zealous in supplying this want, particularly the Waldenses. Not only did they translate the whole of the New Testament and parts of the Old, but added notes embodying Sententiae or opinions of the Fathers. They contended that prayers in an unknown tongue did not profit. They knew by heart large portions of Holy Scripture[14] and readily quoted it in their discussions with the Church. The Catharists also had composed a little work called "Perpendiculum Scientiarum," or "Plummet of Knowledge" (cf. Is. xxviii. 17), consisting of passages of Scripture whereby Catholicism might be easily and readily tested. Not until the eleventh century do we come across in the West any translation into the vulgar tongue by the Church, and then only of Legends of Saints in the dialect of Rouen. In Southern France the vernacular which ultimately emerged was known as Langue D'Oc, and sometimes Provençal. "In its rise Provençal literature stands completely by itself, and in its development it long continued to be absolutely original. This literature took a poetic form, and this poetry, unlike classical poetry, is rhymed." No class of literature is more easily remembered than rhymed verse in common speech. The results of it, therefore, need not cause us surprise. It produced a sense of unity, of comradeship. Latin might be the language of the Church, but this was the language of the people. Its growth created a cleavage between Church and people, which the former sought to bridge by giving the latter accounts of miracles and legends in verse and prose in the Romance language, and by permitting them to sing songs of their own composition--and not necessarily sacred or even modest songs--in the Churches.[15] But the experiment or concession only served to secularize religion, and turned the services into amusements. Nor was it in accord with the real policy of Catholicism which was to prevent the people generally from forming their own opinions of Christianity by an independent study of the Scriptures--a policy which to the Gallican temperament would be particularly odious and exasperating.[16] § 4. SECULAR ELEMENTS Secular causes also account for the growing unpopularity of the Church. On the one hand the seigneurs resented the increasing wealth and land encroachments of Bishops and Abbots. "In the eleventh century the fear of the approaching final judgment and the belief in the speedy dissolution of the world spread throughout all Europe. Some bestowed the whole of their possessions on the Church."[17] But when the donors recovered from their alarm, they regretted their sacrifice, and their descendants would be provoked every day at the sight of others in enjoyment of their ancestral lands. Moreover, the break-up of Charlemagne's vast kingdom threw great power into the hands of the Dukes and Counts. In their own domains they were practically autocrats. The only check upon their sovereignty came from the Church, whose Bishops and Abbots were often able to protect themselves by their own routiers or by ecclesiastical penalties, such as excommunication. But the lords countered this by thrusting their own nominees, often their own relations, into the most powerful and lucrative offices of the Church, or by keeping them vacant and appropriating their revenues. A semblance of legality was thrown over this practice by the fact that "the Bishoprics being secular fiefs, their occupants were bound to the performance of feudal service," and the investiture into the temporalities of the office belonged to the sovereign. Thus the freedom of the Church in the election and appointment of her officers was curtailed. § 5. COMMERCE On the other hand, the increase of commercial prosperity broke down the feudal system. The merchants took advantage of the poverty of the Counts through constant wars by obtaining in exchange for loans certain privileges which, by charter, settled into the inalienable rights of the ville franche. They built for themselves fortified houses in the towns, and from them laughed to scorn the threats of the seigneurs. Their enterprise was constantly bringing money into the country: the non-productive Church was constantly sending it out. Trade with foreign countries created in commercial and industrial circles a sense of independence, and their enlarged outlook gave birth to a religious tolerance favourable to doctrines other than, or in addition to, those of Catholicism. Thus Peter Waldo, the merchant of Lyons, was moved to devote his wealth to disseminate the Word of God as freely as he disposed of his merchandise. These goods had to be made, and the actual manufacturers, especially the weavers, shared in the general prosperity and imbibed this freedom of thought. Erasmus' great wish, that the weaver might warble the Scriptures at his loom,[18] was anticipated by three centuries by the Albigenses, and especially by the Waldenses. So widely did heresy spread among these textile workers that heretic and tesserand became synonymous. At Cordes a nominal factory was set up, but in reality a theological school for instruction in Catharism.[19] § 6. LITERATURE Although it suited the purpose of the Church to regard them as "unlearned and ignorant men," it was from the people that the Provençal literature emanated. The bourgeoisie encouraged poetry and art. The industrial classes turned in contempt from the stupid and impossible stories of saints to a personal study of the Scriptures and their patristic explanations. The Poor Men of Lyons were poor in spirit, not in pocket. Business ability and training enabled them to organize their movement on lines that were both flexible and compact, and their wealth supported their officers. Clerks could copy out their pamphlets, and their colporteurs or travellers could distribute them. At the beginning of the thirteenth century the Marquis of Montferrand, in Auvergne, just before his death, burnt a great quantity of books, especially those of Albigensian propaganda, which he had been collecting for forty years. (Stephen de Belleville, 85.) The Provençal, Arnauld, was a most prolific writer, and sold or gave to the Catholics little books deriding the saints of the Church. Moneta de Cremona, in his great work against the Albigenses, declares that he drew his information of their doctrines from their own writings, and quotes largely from a teacher called Tetricus, a dialectician and interpreter of the Bible. Tetricus was probably that William who was Canon of Nevers, returned to Toulouse in 1201, under the name of Theodoric, and was held in great esteem by the Albigenses for his knowledge.[20] § 7. MORAL AND SPIRITUAL ELEMENTS But of all the causes of the unpopularity of the Church the unworthy lives of the clergy was the most potent, the evidence for which comes less from the accusations of the heretics than from the confessions of the Church itself. To allow immodest songs, composed by the people, to be sung in Church is sufficiently significant of the low standard of the clerical mind; but instances are given of the clergy themselves composing these songs. Agobard, Bishop of Lyons, found there a service-book compiled by an assistant Bishop (_chorepiscopus_) so indecent that he could not read it without a blush. The decrees of Councils throw a strong light upon the luxurious and worldly lives of Bishops and Clergy--their costly clothes, painted saddles and gold-mounted reins, joining in games of chance, their habit of swearing, and allowing others to swear at them without reproof, welcoming to their tables strolling players, hearing Mattins in bed, being frivolous when saying the Offices, excommunicating persons wrongfully, simony, tolerating clerical concubinage, dispensing with banns, celebrating secret marriages, quashing wills. These are not the slanders of heretics, but the testimony of the Church in formal assembly. The Pope, Innocent III, is equally scandalized. Writing of the Archbishop of Narbonne and its clergy, he exclaims: "Blind! dumb dogs that cannot bark! Simoniacs who sell justice, absolve the rich and condemn the poor! They do not keep even the laws of the Church. They accumulate benefices and entrust the priesthood and ecclesiastical dignities to unworthy priests and illiterate children. Hence the insolence of the heretics; hence the contempt of nobles and people for God and His Church. In this region prelates are the laughing stock of the laity. And the cause of all the evil is the Archbishop of Narbonne. He knows no other god than money. His heart is a bank. During the ten years he has been in office he has never once visited his Province, not even his own Diocese. He took five hundred golden pennies for consecrating the Bishop of Maguelonne, and when we asked him to raise subsidies for the Christians in the East he refused. When a Church falls vacant, he refrains from nominating an incumbent, and appropriates the income. For the same reason he has reduced by half the number of canons (eighteen) and kept the archdeaconries vacant. In his Diocese monks and canons regular have renounced their Order and married wives; they have become money-lenders, lawyers, jugglers and doctors." Even Papal Legates, sent to combat heresy, conformed to the same luxurious mode of life, and called down upon themselves the severe reproofs of Bishop Diego and Prior Dominic. Gaucelin Faidit wrote a play, called "The Heresy of the Priests," in which he flung back upon the Clergy the charges which they brought against the Cathari. It was acted with much applause before Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, the friend of Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse (A.D. 1193-1202). Nor, indeed, could it be expected that those who shewed themselves so indifferent to the sacredness of their calling would do other than encourage violations of their prerogatives by the powers of this world. The Counts, therefore, according to Godfrey's Chronicle, handed over Churches to stupid persons or to their own relations, and that simoniacally. Such people shew themselves to be hirelings, shearing the sheep and not attending to their infirmities, and--what is worse--encouraging in sin those whom they ought to correct. The Bishops went about their dioceses exacting illegal taxes and exchanging procurations for indulgences. In contrast to all this was the life and character of the Catharists--for we may dismiss as incapable of proof the charges of extinguished lights, promiscuous intercourse, etc., which were but a réchauffé of the charges made against the early Christians. Catharism, which means Puritanism, was a constant and conspicuous protest to an age and people characterized by a _joie de vivre_. The asceticism of the "Perfect" in particular went beyond that of the severest monasticism, for they eschewed meat always, and not merely at certain times of the year, as well as all food produced by generation. Their relationship of the sexes was ultra-strict. Their word was their bond, and their religion forbade them to mar it with an oath. They possessed no money, and were supported by the community. Their simplicity and modesty in dress, their frugality, their industry, their honesty, kindled the respect, even the reverence, of the masses.[21] No hardships or dangers daunted their missionary ardour. When the Church attacked the heretics by means other than by fire and sword, she failed until the Dominicans copied their methods and the Franciscans their manners. [13] Οἱ ἐν Βιέννῃ καὶ Λουγδούνῳ τῆς Γαλλίας παροικοῦντες δοῦλοι Χριστοῦ, τοῖς κατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν καὶ Φρυγίαν τὴν αὐτὴν τῆς ἀπολυτρώσεως ἡμῖν πίστιν καὶ ἐλπίδα ἔχουσιν ἀδελφοῖς. (Euseb., H.E., v. 1.) [14] Reinéri Saccho says he knew an ignorant rustic who could recite the book of Job word for word. [15] In sanctorum vigiliis in ecclesiis historicae (= histrionicae) saltationes, obsceni motus seu choreae fiunt... dicuntur amatoria carmina vel cantilenae ibidem (Council of Avignon, Canon xvii, A.D. 1209). [16] Prohibemus--ne libros Veteris Testamenti aut Novi laici permittantur habere: nisi forte psalterium vel breviarium pro divinis officiis, aut horas beatae Mariae aliquis ex devotione habere velit. Sed ne praemissos libros habeant in vulgari translatos arctissime inhibemus (Council of Toulouse, Canon XIV, A.D. 1229). [17] Hegel's "Philosophy of History," Pt. IV, Sect. II. [18] Paracelsus, "Works," Vol. IV, p. 141. [19] Prob. in A.D. 1212, when the inhabitants fled to Cordes (then a mere hunting-box of the Counts of Toulouse) from St. Marcel, which was destroyed by Simon de Montfort. The date usually assigned to the founding of Cordes, viz. 1222, is wrong. _See_ "Records of the Académie imperiale des Sciences, Toulouse," Series 6, Vol. V. For this reference I am indebted to my friend, Col. de Cordes. [20] Nearly a century before this (_v. infra_) Henry, the successor of Peter de Bruis, wrote a book which Peter Venerabilis had seen himself, setting forth the several heads of the heresy. [21] Reinéri Saccho, a former Catharist (but not, as he is careful to point out, a Waldensian) and afterward an Inquisitor, says the heretics were distinguished by their conduct and conversation: they were sedate, modest, had no pride in clothes, did not carry on business dishonestly, did not multiply riches, did not go to taverns, dances, etc.; were chaste, especially the Leonists, temperate in meat and drink, not given to anger, always at work, teaching and learning, and therefore prayed little, went to Church, but only to catch the preacher in his discourse; precise and moderate in language. A man swam the River Ibis every night in winter to make one convert. CHAPTER III THE SEED We are now in a position to study more closely the documents from which an estimate may be formed of the beliefs and practices of those whom the Church exerted its full strength to destroy. Our task is not a simple one, because, as already stated, there was not one heresy, but many, and we are dependent for our knowledge of their tenets almost entirely upon their enemies whose _odium theologicum_ discounts their trustworthiness. § 1. EYMERIC It may simplify our task if we set down the fourteen heads under which the Inquisitor Eymeric in his "Directorium Inquisitorum"[22] classifies what he calls "_recentiorum_ Manicheorum errores." (1) They assert and confess that there are two Gods or two Lords, viz. a good God, and an evil Creator of all things visible and material; declaring that these things were not made by God our heavenly Father... but by a wicked devil, even Satan... and so they assume two Creators, viz. God and the Devil; and two Creations, viz. one of immaterial and invisible things, the other of visible and material. (2) They imagine that there are two Churches, one good, which they say is their own sect, and declare to be the Church of Jesus Christ; the other, however, they call an evil Church, which they say is the Church of Rome. (3) All grades, orders, ordinances and statutes of the Church they despise and ignore, and all who hold the Faith they call heretics and deluded, and positively assert (_dogmatizant_) that nobody can be saved by the faith (_in fide_) of the Roman Church. (4) All the Sacraments of the Roman Church of our Lord Jesus Christ, viz. the Eucharist, and Baptism performed with material water, also Confirmation and Orders and Extreme Unction and Penance (_poenitentia_) and Matrimony, all and singular, they assert to be vain and useless. (5) They invent, instead of holy Baptism in water, another _spiritual_ Baptism, which they call the Consolation (_consolamentum_)[23] of the Holy Spirit. (6) They invent, instead of the consecrated bread of the Eucharist of the Body of Christ, a certain bread, which they call "blessed bread," or "bread of holy prayer," which, holding in their hands, they bless according to their rite, and break and distribute to their fellow-believers seated. (7) Instead of the Sacrament of Penance they say that their sect receives and holds a true Penance (_poenitentia_), and to those holding the said sect and order, whether they be in health or sickness, all sins are forgiven (_dimissa_), and that such persons are absolved from all their sins without any other satisfaction, asserting that they themselves have over these the same and as great power as had Peter and Paul and the other Apostles... saying that the confession of sins which is made to the priests of the Roman Church is of no avail whatever for salvation, and that neither the Pope nor any other person of the Roman Church has power to absolve anyone from his sins. (8) Instead of the Sacrament of carnal Matrimony between man and woman, they invent a spiritual Matrimony between the soul and God, viz. when the heretics themselves, the perfect or consoled (_perfecti seu consolati_), receive anyone into their sect and order. (9) They deny the Incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ from Mary ever virgin, asserting that He had not a true human body, etc., but that all things were done figuratively (_in similitudinem_). (10) They deny that the Blessed Virgin Mary was the true mother of our Lord Jesus Christ; they deny also that she was a woman of flesh (_carnalem_). But they say their sect and order is the Virgin Mary, and that true penance (_poenitentia_) is a chaste virgin who bears sons of God when they are received into their sect and order. (11) They deny the future resurrection of human bodies, imagining, instead, certain spiritual bodies. (12) They say that a man ought to eat or touch neither meat nor cheese nor eggs, nor anything which is born of the flesh by way of generation or intercourse. (13) They say and believe that in brutes and even in birds there are those spirits which go forth from the bodies of men when they have not been received into their sect and order by imposition of hands, according to their rite, and that they pass from one body into another; wherefore they themselves do not eat or kill any animal or anything that flies. (14) They say that a man ought never to touch a woman. § 2. ADEMAR The earliest mention of the heterodox as _Manichees_ is found in Ademar, a noble of Aquitaine, who says: "Shortly afterwards (A.D. 1018) there arose throughout _Aquitaine_ Manichees, seducing the people. They denied Baptism and the Cross, and whatever is of sound doctrine. Abstaining from food, they appeared like monks and feigned chastity, but amongst themselves they indulged in every luxury and were the messengers of Anti-Christ, and have caused many to err from the faith."[24] § 3. COUNCIL OF ORLEANS These "Manichees" may have fled from the theological school at Orleans where heresy had been detected and punished only the year before, although neither Glaber Radulf[25] nor Agono, of the monastery of St. Peter's, Chartres,[26] both contemporaries, denominates them Manichees. The proceedings of the Council of Orleans, though beyond our area, is of interest to us, because of the eminence and influence of its theological school, and also because the Queen, Constance, was daughter of Raymond of Toulouse, she having married Robert after he had been compelled to divorce his first wife, Bertha. The heresy, by whatever name it reached or left Orleans, probably affected Southern France, for it is stated that the heresy was brought into Gaul by an _Italian_ woman "by whom many in _many_ parts were corrupted." The "depravity" of the heretics was spread secretly, and was only disclosed to the King by a nobleman of Normandy, named Arefast, who became acquainted with the existence of the heresy through a young ecclesiastic, Heribert. At the Council (_A.D._ 1022) which the King summoned, and which consisted of many Bishops, Abbots and _laymen_,[27] the three ringleaders, Stephen, the Queen's Confessor, Heribert, who had filled the post of ambassador to the King of France, and Lisois, all famous for their learning, holiness and generosity, declared that everything in the Old and New Testaments about the Blessed Trinity, although authority supported it by signs and wonders and ancient witnesses, was nonsense; that heaven and earth never had an author, and are eternal; that Jesus Christ was not born of the Virgin Mary, did not suffer for men, was not placed in the sepulchre, and did not rise again from the dead; that there is no washing away of sins in Baptism; that there is no sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ at the consecration by a priest; intercessions of saints, martyrs and confessors are valueless. Arefast, the informer, said he asked wherein then he could rest his hope of salvation; he was invited to submit to their imposition of hands, then he would be pure from all sin, and be filled with the Holy Spirit Who would teach him the depths and true meaning (_profunditatem et veram dignitatem_) of all the Scriptures without any reserve. He would see visions of Angels who would always help him, and God his Friend (_comes_) would never let him want for anything.[28] They were like the Epicureans, and did not believe that flagitious pleasures would be punished, or that piety and righteousness--the wealth of Christians--would receive everlasting reward. Arefast also brings against them the odious charges of extinguished lights and promiscuous intercourse; the children thus begotten were solemnly burnt the day after their birth, their ashes preserved and given to the dying as a Viaticum. Threatened with death by fire, they boasted that they would escape from the flames. Sentenced to death, the King feared lest they should be killed in the Church and commanded Queen Constance to stand on guard at the door. But the Queen herself got out of hand, for as the condemned heretics came forth she gouged out (_eruit_) with a staff the eye of Stephen, her late confessor. As soon as they felt the fire, they cried out that they had been deceived by the Devil, and that the God and Lord of the universe, Whom they had blasphemed, was punishing them with torture temporal and eternal. Some of the bystanders were deeply moved and endeavoured to rescue them, but in vain. The number who perished varies between fourteen and ten. "A like fate met others who held a like faith," says Glaber, "and thus the Catholic faith was vindicated and everywhere shone more brightly." The Council's investigations also brought to light the fact that a Canon of Orleans, and Precentor, called Theodotus (_Dieudonné_), had three years before died in heresy, although he pretended to live and die in the communion of the Church. On this deception being discovered, his body was exhumed by order of Bishop Odalric and thrown away. It will be noted that the Council does not call them Manichees or any other name. In fact, with the exception of Ademar, no one for nearly a century identifies the heretics with Manicheism. They are not labelled at the Council of Charroux in A.D. 1028 (or 1031). At the Council of Rheims in A.D. 1049 they are vaguely spoken of as "new heretics who have arisen in France." The Council of Toulouse in A.D. 1056 condemned in its thirteenth Canon certain heretics, but does not specify their errors. In A.D. 1110 in the Diocese of Albi, Bishop Sicard and Godfrey of Muret, Abbot of Castres, attempted to seize some heretics already excommunicated, but were prevented by nobles and people; but they are only colourlessly described as: Astricti Satanae qui sunt anathemate diro, Noluntque absolvi restituique Deo.[29] § 4. COUNCIL OF TOULOUSE Another Council held at Toulouse in A.D. 1119, presided over by the Pope, Callistus III, is more precise, but does not denominate them. By its third Canon it enacted: "Moreover, those who, pretending to a sort of religion, condemn the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of the Lord, the Baptism of children, the priesthood and other ecclesiastical orders and the compacts of lawful marriage, we expel from the Church of God as heretics and condemn them, and enjoin upon the secular powers (_exteras potestates_) to restrain them. In the bonds of this same sentence we include their defenders until they recant." § 5. PETER DE BRUIS A new heresiarch now comes upon the scene in the person of Peter de Bruis, of whom nothing previous is known, except that according to Alfonso à Castro he was a Gaul of Narbonne. We first hear of him from Maurice de Montboissier, better known as Petrus Venerabilis, Abbot of Cluny, who addressed an open letter "to the lords, fathers and masters of the Church of God, the Archbishops of Arles and Embrun" and certain Bishops. As the Abbot died in A.D. 1126(7), and the heresiarch laboured for twenty years in promulgating his teaching, he was contemporary with the Council of Toulouse of A.D. 1119,[30] and its condemnation may have been directed in part against his followers, who were called Petrobrusians. The letter of the Abbot has a preface which is not his, but which was written after his death. This preface sums up the tenets of the Petrobrusians under five heads: (1) They deny that little children under years of discretion (_intelligibilem aetatem_) can be saved by the baptism of Christ, and another's faith cannot benefit those who cannot use their own... for the Lord said, "Whosoever _believed_ and was baptized was saved." (2) Temples and Churches ought not to be built, and those already built ought to be pulled down, and sacred places for praying were not necessary to Christians, since equally in tavern or church, in market or temple, before altar or stall, God, when called upon, hears and hearkens to those who deserve. (3) All holy crosses should be broken up and burnt, since that instrument by which Christ was so fearfully tortured and so cruelly put to death was not worthy of adoration, veneration or any other worship, but in revenge for His torments and death should be dishonoured with every kind of infamy, struck with swords and burnt. (4) Not only do they deny the truth of the Body and Blood of the Lord in the Sacrament daily and continually offered up in the Church, but declare that it is absolutely nothing and ought not to be offered to God. (5) They deride sacrifices, prayers, alms and other good things done by the faithful living for the faithful departed, and affirm that these things cannot help any of the dead in the smallest degree.[31] Also "they say God is mocked by Church hymns, because He delights in pious desires, and cannot be summoned by loud voices or appeased by musical notes."[32] In the letter itself Peter Venerabilis points out to the prelates that in their parts the people were re-baptized, churches profaned, altars thrown down, crosses burnt. Meat was publicly eaten on the very day of the Lord's Passion, priests were scourged, monks imprisoned and compelled by terrors and tortures to marry. "The heads, indeed, of these pests by God's help as well as by the aid of Catholic princes you have driven out of your territories. But the slippery serpent, gliding out of your territories, or rather driven out by your prosecution, has betaken itself to the Province of Narbonne, and whereas with you it used to whisper in deserts and hamlets in fear, it now preaches boldly in great meetings and crowded cities. But let the most distant shores of the swift Rhone and the champaign adjacent to Toulouse, and the city itself, more populous than its neighbours, drive out this opinion; for the better informed the city is, the more cautious it ought to be against false dogma." Peter de Bruis was burnt by the faithful in revenge for the crosses which he had burnt. § 6. HENRY OF CLUNY But "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church," whether that Church be true or false, and the mantle of Peter de Bruis fell strangely upon Henry, a fellow monk at Cluny of Peter Venerabilis. Henry, "haeres nequitiae ejus," with many others "doctrinam diabolicam non quidem emendavit sed immutavit," and wrote it down in a volume which Peter himself had seen, and that not under five heads, but several. "Haeres," however, must be loosely interpreted with regard to both time and teaching. For Henry had already been wonderfully successful as a revivalist elsewhere, and his teaching did not entirely coincide with that of Peter de Bruis. For instance, whereas the latter burnt the cross, Henry had one carried before him and his followers when he entered towns and villages, and made it the emblem and inspiration of a life of self-denial, to which his own monastic training would predispose him. So far from calling for the destruction of sacred buildings, he used them, when he obtained permission--as he did from Bishop Hildebert--for his mission preaching. He insisted upon the celibacy of the clergy, but regulated in minute detail the marriage of the laity. In fact, it is not easy to see how his teaching could be called heretical, unless it were his opposition to saint-worship, and doubtless he would have been allowed to move about freely had he not denounced the luxurious lives of the clergy and exposed them to the contempt and insults of the people. Arrested in A.D. 1134 he was condemned for heresy at the Council of Pisa, and imprisoned there; but he was released and returned to France, where he laboured in and around Toulouse and Albi, and met with remarkable success, not only amongst the laity, but even amongst the clergy; so much so, indeed, that the Churches were emptied of both, in order that priest and people might join the sect, which, after its leader, was called Henricians. Not until A.D. 1148 was he finally suppressed. Brought before a Council at Rheims he was sentenced to imprisonment for life, a punishment which goes to shew that he was not regarded as a heretic, but as a firebrand whose inflammatory activity must, for the peace of the Church, be extinguished. Reform of life rather than reform of doctrine was the aim of Henry's mission. § 7. RALPH ARDENS But although that mission was successful, it did not absorb all the anti-church movements. The Dualistic creed still obtained in many parts of Southern France, as Radulf Ardens[33] ("Sermons," p. 325) declared: "Such to-day, my brethren, are the Manichean heretics, for they have defiled our fatherland of Agen. They falsely assert that they keep to the Apostolic life, saying that they do not lie or swear at all; on the pretence of abstinence and continence they condemn flesh-food and marriage. They say that it is as great a sin to approach a wife as it is a mother or daughter. They condemn the Old Testament, and receive only some parts of the New. But what is more serious is they preach that there are two authors of Nature (_rerum_), God the author of things invisible, and the Devil the author of things visible. Hence, they secretly worship the Devil, because they believe him to be the creator of their body. They say that the Sacrament of the Altar is plain (_purum_) bread. They deny Baptism. They preach that no one can be saved except by their hands. They deny also the resurrection of the body." § 8. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX Bernard of Clairvaux (b. A.D. 1091), however, refuses to connect the heretics with any human founder, Mani, Peter de Bruis, or Henry. "These" (heretics), he exclaims,[34] "are sheep in appearance (_habitu_), foxes in cunning, wolves in cruelty. They are rustics, ignorant and utterly despicable, but you must not deal with them carelessly.... They prohibit marriage, they abstain from food. The Manicheans had Mani for chief and instructor, the Arians Arius, etc. By what name or title do you think you can call these? By none, for their heresy is not of man, and they did not receive it through man. It is by the deceit of devils.... Still some differ from the rest, and profess that marriage should be contracted only between bachelors and virgins (_inter solos virgines_). They deny that the fire of purgatory remains after death." § 9. COUNCIL OF TOURS But something more official, more imposing than separate and isolated denunciations and condemnations of individuals was demanded by reason of the rapid and extensive growth of these heresies. Accordingly a Council met at Tours in A.D. 1163, the title of the fourth Canon of which is: "That all should avoid the company (_consortium_) of the Albigensian heretics." Here, for the first
here, forsooth, to instruct and to educate us on the subject of law and order, while he reserves to himself the right of declaring, and more than once declaring, in this House, as far as I remember--(_Col. Saunderson: "Yes."_) So much the better. All right. (_Laughter and cheers._) He declared that "if Parliament passed ant act for granting to Ireland a carefully guarded portion of the independence she once possessed, he will be the man to resist and to recommend resistance." (_Opposition cheers._) He is dealing with gentlemen below the gangway, and he has the consummate art and the consummate courage to advertise himself as the apostle of law and order. (_Cheers._) Then the honorable member referred to a speech of mine in which I referred to the lamentable murder of Constable Whelehan in the county of Clare. The Chief Secretary was not ashamed in this House, where he could not be answered, to say that I had made adverse comments on the conduct of Whelehan, a man who had lost his life in the service of his country. Mr. BALFOUR. I said it in this House on Friday last, and I say it again. (_Ministerial cheers._) Mr. GLADSTONE. I have no intention of charging the right honorable gentleman with anything which is not true in fact. I am glad he has contradicted me. I did not recollect, for I did not hear it. But it was totally and absolutely untrue. (_Opposition cheers._) Either he had not read what I said, or if he has read it, and the same applies to the honorable and gallant member for North Armagh, they have absolutely misrepresented the purport of the speech they professed to quote. I never named Whelehan except to deplore his death, and to express the hope that his murderers would be punished. In my reference to that speech, there is not a word to show that Whelehan was the man who was the unhappy organ of the police in ministering pecuniary payment to the infamous informer, nor is there one word in all that reference of blame to her Majesty's Government. On the contrary, there is an express declaration that I laid no blame upon her Majesty's Government with reference to the case of Whelehan. Why, then, did I refer to it? On this account: The honorable and gallant gentleman, in the careless way in which he refers to these things, said I must be cognizant of the fact that prices were paid for obtaining information I said at Nottingham; I made no reference at all to the rather difficult question of payment of prices for obtaining information: but what I referred to was the payment of prices, not for obtaining information, but for concocting and concerting crimes. (_Cheers._) After the gradual revelations that were made to us of the mode in which Ireland is administered, according to the traditions of that country, it is perfectly possible that such things may have been done, though I have never heard of them. But when I did learn in that particular instance of that foul and loathsome practice of paying money for such a purpose to a man, as far as we are yet informed, who was to attend a meeting of the criminals for the purpose of putting a hand to the arrangement and the execution of it (_loud cheers_), then I did think it was time to protest in the name of the Liberal party, if not of the whole country, against the practice which, in my opinion, is in itself odious to the last degree, which would not be for a moment tolerated in England, and in reference to which I thought it wise and right to point out that it was dangerous as well as odious, that when in a similar case the population of England had become cognizant of similar practices, they themselves had resorted to the commission of crime for the purpose of marking the detestation with which they regarded it. ("_Hear, hear._") I pass on to the remarks of the right honorable gentleman the Chief Secretary for Ireland, and I feel bound to refer to the observation he made during the general debate on the address last week, to what he called the practice of members on this side of the House of making statements outside this House which they would not repeat within it, and especially to his adverse and rather angry comments on tne pacific tone of the speech which I had just delivered. The right honorable gentleman overflows with pugnacious matter. He is young and inexperienced in debate, and bold and able as I confess him to be, I think that when he has been fifty-six years in the service of his country, it is possible that his stock of contentious eagerness may be a little abated. (_Laughter and cheers._) I have many reasons, but if I must give a reason why I was particularly anxious to avoid the needless introduction of contentious or polemical or accusatory matter in speaking on the opening debate on the address. I felt that an Irish debate was pending; and in the second place, the great object I had in view was to assist and to promote the purpose of the Government,--to promote, I will also say, the honor, dignity, and efficiency of this House, by giving what I may call in homely language a good start to the business of the session, by detaching it from everything like controversy. But if the right honorable gentleman laments the uncombative character of that discussion, I think he will derive probably ample satisfaction in the future. There is no fear, I believe, that Irish debate will be wanting in animation, possibly in animosity, so long as the right honorable gentleman continues to be Chief Secretary. (_Opposition cheers and laughter._) The right honorable gentleman even on that occasion found in my pacific speech matter deserving of indignant rebuke. I repeat my lamentations that some of the most difficult and the nicest parts of the law are removed by the operation of the Coercion Act of last year from judges and juries to men whom I termed of an inferior stamp. That was the observation I ventured to make, and the right honorable gentleman was rather wrathful over it. I fully admit that he is a perfect master of _tu quoque_. He said, "Whoever they are, they are the men whom Lord Spencer appointed." In the first place, that is quite inaccurate; and in the second place, if inaccurate, it was totally irrelevant. It is perfectly inaccurate. Mr. BALFOUR. I said that sixty out of seventy-three were appointed mostly by Lord Spencer, or else were the appointments of previous Governments revived by him. Mr. GLADSTONE. And so the right honorable gentleman thinks that what he calls reviving--that is to say not dismissing--is the same thing as appointing. (_"Hear, hear," and laughter._) The gentlemen of whose conduct as resident magistrates I especially complained, were Mr. Eldon, Captain Seagrave, Mr. Cecil Roche, Mr. Meldon, and Mr. Carew. These five, and undoubtedly these are the gentlemen I had specially in view when I spoke of men of an inferior stamp, not one of these was appointed by Lord Spencer. (_Cheers._) But supposing they were, the statement of the right honorable gentleman was absolutely and ludicrously irrelevant. What I was speaking of was not the discharge by the resident magistrates of their ordinary and traditionary duties, but the extraordinary duties which the right honorable gentleman and the Government have insisted in putting upon them. The right honorable gentleman was especially indignant with me, because at a given date in the recess, or before the termination of the session, I telegraphed to some correspondent the words, "Remember Mitchelstown," and that in a speech at Nottingham I had developed my meaning of that phrase with all the force I could. The right honorable gentleman thought fit to point at me the reproach that I was not disposed to maintain here what I have said elsewhere. Now I have referred to my own statement at Nottingham about Mitchelstown, and I can only say I not only adhere to it, but I strengthen it. I never in my life uttered words, or sent words by letter or telegram, which I more rejoice to have used, and am better content to have used, than the words, "Remember Mitchelstown." (_Loud Opposition cheers._) It was not done inconsiderately. It was done considerately, for the sake of Ireland and the country, and for the sake of preventing the enormous mischiefs, probable sufferings, probable bloodshed, and the consequent resistance to the law that might arise in Ireland in consequence of what had occurred at Mitchelstown, and of its adoption and appropriation by the right honorable gentleman. (_Cheers._) What was it? It was this: A legal meeting ("_Hear, hear_") of 4,000 men assembled; the police, under the plea of the common practice of having an official reporter at the meeting, instead of prior communication with those who held it, instead of going to the platform at a point where it was open and accessible, formed a wedge of twenty men, and endeavored by force to drive that wedge into the middle of the crowd. I am here to say that a public meeting is an orderly assembly; that to observe order in a public meeting is part of the law of the land ("_Hear, hear_"); that the driving a wedge into the meeting was an illegality on the part of the police; and that the police who drove it into the crowd were themselves guilty of illegality, and ought to have been given into custody. (_Cheers._) On this deplorable occasion the agents of the law were the breakers of the law, and those breakers of the law, acting in the first instance under subordinate authority, were adopted and sanctioned by the right honorable gentleman, with the full authority of the Government. (_Cheers._) What was the second act of the police? Their wedge was not strong enough; they were pressed back out of the crowd, and it seems to me with perfect propriety and legality, whereupon they brought a large force of police and charged the crowd, because the crowd had not concurred and co-operated in the former illegality. That was a fresh illegality committed by the police. Then violence began; then began the use of batons; then began the use of sticks and cudgels; then began the sufferings of the men in the crowd, and of individual members of the police, on which the right honorable gentleman is eloquent, and which I regret as much as he does. But the police in these two illegalities of attacking and batoning the crowd were defeated. The crowd did not pursue them. (_Cheers._) According to all the information before us, the crowd were recalled, and again took their places in the square. A mere scattering and sprinkling of most probably boys, we know not how and to what extent, were in the street where the police barracks are to be found; and among them, those boys or others, succeeded in breaking three windows of the police barracks. (_Laughter._) Those three windows were exalted and uplifted by the right honorable gentleman into a general attack on the barracks, compelling the police, in self-defence, to fire on the people. In one sense I must say the police did not fire on the people, for no mass of people was there to fire on. I said at Nottingham, and it is the result of all the inquiry I have made, that there was not more than twenty people in the street opposite the barracks, and under these circumstances the police actually fired into the windows of the opposite house, where there were peaceful people, women, and children; and they fired deliberately at individuals, two old men and one boy, whom they destroyed. That I do not hesitate here to denounce--I think I did not use the words at Nottingham--as cruel, wanton, and disgraceful bloodshed (_Loud cheers._) It recalls the period of Lord Sidmouth, and was bloodshed which, so far as I know, has had no example in its wantonness and causelessness since the memorable occasion in Manchester, which is popularly known as the Massacre of Peterloo. (_Cheers._) Now, I have given the right honorable gentlemen my views about Mitchelstown. (_Opposition cheers and derisive Ministerial cheers._) It was time that I should say, "Remember Mitchelstown." Mitchelstown might have become what in one particular class of language is termed a "prerogative instance." The Mitchelstown police, commended by the right honorable gentleman, were held up to the police in Ireland as the pattern which they were to follow. (_Cheers._) They were told they had acted only in self-defence, and the measure and meaning of self-defence, as exhibited at Mitchelstown, I feared, and it was reasonable to fear, would be the meaning and the measure of self-defence on every other occasion, when, by legality or illegality, the police found an opportunity of coming into collision with the people. (_Cheers._) I tell the right honorable gentleman frankly that, in my opinion, he had become, by clear implication, a breaker of the law. (_Cheers._) He had given to the breaking of the law authoritative countenance and approval, and not only so, but he had done it under circumstances where that authoritative approval, conveyed to the mind of the police, would naturally, justly, and excusably, almost necessarily, have pointed out to them that that was to be the model and rule of their conduct in every example of the kind. (_Cheers._) Sir, it was in the interests of law and order that I denounced the conduct of the police. (_Opposition cheers and derisive Ministerial cheers, in which Mr. Balfour joined._) It will be a long time, I think, before he can discover an instance, either on this bench or among any of those who are our friends, in which the law and order of the country, and the security and the lives of the people, had been treated with such recklessness as they then were by the right honorable gentleman and his colleagues. (_Cheers._) I have done my best to inform myself, and in conformity with, I believe, uncontradicted and consentient statements, I contend that the inferences I have drawn from these facts are just inferences, and that it was not only natural but necessary to adopt precautions on the part, I will say, of England, against the fatal imitations which Mitchelstown might have produced, and to take securities for law and order in Ireland, first of all, as I pointed out to the people of England, that these things ought to be watched; and secondly, by making known to the Government, and to their agents and their organs beyond the the Channel, that if such occurrences did happen, they would not pass uncensured. (_Cheers._) I believe I never spoke more useful--I will go further, and say more fruitful--words than when I telegraphed, "Remember Mitchelstown." (_Loud Opposition cheers and derisive Ministerial cheers._) I now come to the statistics of the right honorable gentleman, with reference to boycotting. The Government are particularly stingy in their statistics, but they have given some figures as to boycotting. I do not recollect that boycotting was ever made a portion of Government statistics before. Mr. BALFOUR. We have made statistics before on boycotting. Mr. GLADSTONE. Yes; but I am speaking of the ancient and traditional practice which this Conservative Government are always so indisposed to follow. (_Opposition cheers and laughter._) Statistics of crime deal with facts and matter of record; statistics of boycotting, as far as I understand, are matter of opinion. ("_Hear, hear._") What amounts to boycotting,--what is the test of it? There must be, and will be, cases of harsh and unreasonable persecution under the name of boycotting. It is never to be forgotten, though it is very common to forget it, that when you have a state of things that prevails in Ireland,--old and sore relations of friction between class and class, the sense of still remaining suffering or grievance, and consequent instability of social order,--the criminal elements that will always subsist in every community (though I thank God to say that I believe they subsist in Ireland more narrowly than almost anywhere else), I will find their way into social questions, and undoubtedly you will have bad, and very bad, cases exhibited in matters such as these. Therefore the exhibition of particular instances is a very unsafe and insufficient test. They ought to be quoted with great accuracy. The right honorable gentleman has been defending to-night his chosen instruments of the present year. ("_Hear, hear._") Yes, but he was met immediately with point blank contradictions on matters of fact, and at present I shall enter no further into that question, which evidently must be made the subject of further examination. ("_Hear, hear._") But the right honorable gentleman gave us last year a case of boycotting which was touching to the last degree,--the case of the Galway midwife. (_Cheers and laughter._) Does the right honorable gentleman say that the instance he selected last year--the instance of the Galway midwife--was well founded? (_Cheers._) Mr. BALFOUR. Absolutely correct in every particular. (_Ministerial cheers._) Mr. GLADSTONE. All I can say is, that here likewise the right honorable gentleman has been met with a point blank contradiction. ("_Hear, hear._") But what are we to say of boycotting statistics as a basis for legislation or for congratulation on the rising felicity of a country, when the right honorable gentleman, out of the thousands of cases he has had before him, can only select for us two upon which he is at once met by having his facts challenged, and his conclusions falsified? (_Cheers._) Let me point out this. My right honorable friend, the member for Newcastle, well remarked on a former occasion, that there is a chapter of statistics which, if the right honorable gentleman had chosen to enter it, would have been far more to the purpose on this occsion than these he has laid before us, though they are not wholly without value; and that is the statistics of evicted or derelict land. ("_Hear, hear._") There could be no difficulty whatever for the right honorable gentleman to have called for returns of the acreage on farms, which, in different counties in Ireland, either all over Ireland or in selected counties, had been derelict a year, two years, or three years ago, in the time of Lord Spencer and down to the present date, and had shown us how, under the recovered liberty of the Irish people, about which he boasts, the acreage of these derelict farms had gradually been diminished. The right honorable gentleman has not only avoided but shirked that question (_cheers_), and he shirked it because he substituted for any attempt at a rational answer to my right honorable friend, a jeremiad upon the state of feeling which he thought might be produced in Ireland when he found my right honorable friend using language which, in his opinion, was capable of being interpreted into sympathy with the operations of the Land League. ("_Hear, hear._") A more unjust charge never was made. (_Opposition cheers_). But, just or unjust, it has nothing to do with the question. The right honorable gentleman found himself, and the Queen has been instructed to found herself in her speech, and the organs of the Government have based themselves in their articles, upon the assertion that liberty, as they phrase it, is returning to the people of Ireland. If that liberty were returning, it would be exhibited in a proportionate diminution of derelect farms. (_"Hear, hear," from Mr. Balfour._) Then why have you not shown it? (_Opposition cheers._) There is one part of the statistics that we have read with increased satisfacfaction, that is the diminution in the amount of crime, limited as that diminution is. I thought when the right honorable gentleman constructed his artificial return, he had some very special purpose in view. It is the first time that I have known the month of January do such good service, and when I look into the return, I find out the cause: The return of offences reported to the constabulary are reported under three major heads,--offences against the person, offences against property, and offences against the public peace. With regard to the offences against the person and property, I find that if I take the five months only of last year, after the passing of the Coercion Act, and compare them with the corresponding five months of the year before, there is no diminution whatever. ("_Hear, hear._") But in the month of January there was in offences against the person a sudden, a most well-timed, and fortunate, and rapid decline, for they fell from ten to three. The right honorable gentleman drew January into his service; by means of that declension, he was able to show a diminution of six per cent of offences against person and property. I am extremely glad of it, and wish there had been a great deal more. The offences which have sensibly and really diminished are those against the public peace, and I rejoice that they have diminished. But why? The right honorable gentleman stands up and says that the cause of the diminution is the Coercion Act, but I think I have shown that whereas the diminution of crime proper, as directed against person and property, is an exceedingly small diminution, the diminution of offences against the public peace is much larger. I make it out to be that that they fell in these six months from three hundred and twenty-four to two hundred and thirty-eight, or a diminution of about twenty-five per cent. These are exactly the offences that would diminish under the operation of a conciliatory Land Act. (_Opposition cheers._) The right honorable gentleman has the boldness to say that we, on this side of the House, never gave any credit to the Land Act. Why, sir, the Land Act, grossly imperfect as it was, culpably imperfect in the matter of arrears (_cheers_), contained a great and important provision which the member for Cork in vain had demanded in the September before, which, if it had then been granted, you probably never might have heard of the Plan of Campaign. (_Cheers._) It was denounced to the House by the Government of that day as being a provision totally incompatible with that morality, forsooth, on which right honorable gentlemen prided themselves. (_Laughter._) I speak of the provision which, under a great responsibility, her Majesty's Government, though far too late, introduced as a most valuable gift. It was quite evident that, so far as offences against the public peace were concerned, the reopening of the judicial rents, and the concession made to leaseholders, could not but operate in the most powerful manner in favor of that diminution. (_Cheers._) There are two other questions to be considered, viz., how the law has been administered, and how the administration of the law has succeeded. Has the administration of the law been of a character to reconcile, or has it been of a character to estrange, or has it been calculated to teach respect for the Government, or to bring the Government into increasing hatred or contempt? I am not going into details of prison treatment, but I am going to touch the case of two members of Parliament, with reference to a matter other than prison treatment. I am not cognizant by direct and personal knowledge of the facts, but I have received them from quarters thought to be thoroughly informed. Unless I had so received them, I would not think of laying them before the House. Mr. Sheehy, a member of this House, has been arrested and remanded without bail. It was a misfortune which might have been taken into consideration at the time that his wife was ill of a disease known as scarlatina, or scarlet fever. He was offered bail by the Government if he would promise not to open his lips in public. By Government--that, I presume, means the Executive Government. I want to know what title the resident magistrate had to make such a condition as that. (_Opposition cheers._) Most dangerous is this introduction of the new discretion of resident magistrates,--a discretion of imposing new restrictions upon prisoners. Why is it necessary to impose these conditions? If Mr. Sheehy chose to commit an offence while he was under bail, he could be taken up for that, and I want to hear from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, or some member of the Government, a distinct account of the new doctrine that those conditions may be imposed, which are written, I believe, neither in law nor in custom, which have been set in action in Ireland, but which in England, we know, are not heard of, and would not be heard of or tolerated for a moment. (_Cheers._) Mr. Sheehy, I must say, very properly entirely declined to accede to that condition, and he was tried and sentenced to three months' imprisonment. He appealed, as he was entitled to do, and bail was accepted for his appearance at quarter sessions, so that he would have been able to obey the almost sacred domestic form of tie which was at the time incumbent upon him. But as he was going out of the door of the court he was arrested again on another charge, and brought away immediately to a distant part of the country, his wife being in the very crisis of her illness, and her life seriously threatened. On the second charge he was sentenced, not to three months, which would have enabled him to appeal, but to one months imprisonment, (_Nationalist cheers_), depriving him of the power of appeal. Mr. CHANCE. Which had been promised by the right honorable gentleman to the House. Mr. GLADSTONE. The right honorable gentleman, the Chief Secretary, is perfectly aware of that promise. He is perfectly aware that in the debate last year he was charged by my right honorable friend near me (Sir W. Harcourt) with breech of faith with regard to that promise, and to that charge of breach he has remained, I must say, very patiently silent. (_Opposition cheers._) Now, is that the sort of administration of the act of last year which her Majesty's Government are prepared to defend? (_Opposition cheers._) Is it thus that Ireland is to be reconciled? (_Nationalist cheers._) Is it thus that the Irish nation is to be converted? Is it in this House of Commons, the most ancient and the noblest of all the temples of freedom, that such operations as this are to be either passed over in silence or defended by those engaged in them? (_Loud Opposition cheers._) I cannot understand the extreme severity of treatment in certain particulars, if I am rightly informed, meted out to this gentleman; but I wish to keep for the present to what relates most distinctly to the administration of the law as apart from prison discipline, and in that view alone I would mention the case of Alderman Hooper and others. Alderman Hooper was sentenced for publishing reports of the National League branches that had been suppressed, although, as I understand, there are plenty of these reports published within the cognizance of the Government, with respect to which those who publish them have not been sentenced and have not been proceeded against. Well, Mr. Alderman Hooper was proceeded against, and was sentenced for publishing these reports for a term of one month. He would have had there no right of appeal, but was again simultaneously charged for publishing another report; another sentence of one month was pronounced upon him. These sentences, though cumulative with regard to him, were not cumulative with regard to the right to appeal. (_Cheers._) Therefore, while the right honorable gentleman professed to give the right of appeal for all sentences above a month, by this clever device he has contrived to inflict upon Alderman Hooper, a member of this House, an imprisonment of two months, and yet that Alderman Hooper should have no right of appeal. And there again, sir, I say I am sorry to use strong words, but I am tempted to do so outside this House, and I will do so in this House. (_Opposition cheers_) This was explained to be not only a constitutional violence, not only a clear evasion of the spirit of the law, but an incredible meanness (_loud Opposition cheers_), a meanness in the method of administering the Crimes Act, and a spirit is displayed which, if the Irish people had only a hundredth part of the courage, the pluck, and perseverance which they had shown through seven centuries, could only tend to alienate and estrange them from those who attempt so to govern them. (_Opposition cheers._) The word that I have thus used I am going to use again. (_Ministerial laughter._) I am very desirous to invite the concurrence of the Chancellor of the Exchequer in the propriety of my application of it, or whether he considers that nobleness would be a better description of the circumstances which I am about to describe. Without knowing what I am going to say, the right honorable gentleman accepts my challenge, and, therefore, I am justified in exhibiting a specimen of the nobleness with which this administration of Ireland is conceived and executed. I have before me a list of six people prosecuted, not for publishing reports of suppressed branches, but for selling them. Their names are: Macnamara, at Tralee; Mahony, Tralee; Molloy, Tralee; Brosman, Killarney; Green, at Killarney, also; and at Ennis, another Macnamara. (_Irish honorable members: "This same man twice."_) Two of the cases were dismissed, but four of them were sent to prison,--one for a month with hard labor, another for a month with hard labor, another for two months with hard labor, and another released on a promise not to do it again. Again this method of interfering with private freedom by arbitrary restriction, governed by no law, justified by no usage, devised by this spirit of Irish administration (_cheers_), and with respect to which I want to know how far this importation into the law and jurisprudence of the country is to be carried under the auspices of her Majesty's Government. Well, now, sir, I want to know from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, if he is to speak to-night, does he see nobleness in the prosecution of these men? ("_Hear, hear._") Does he think it rational to prosecute these men? (_Cheers._) Does he think it right to require of the vender of a newspaper that he should read its contents? Does he think it right to require that he should have formed his judgment of those contents, that he should have made up his mind whether the proceedings described in the newspaper were legal or illegal? and is that the responsibility which he thinks ought to be imposed on the vender of a newspaper under pain of being condemned to one month or two months' imprisonment? This administration of the Crimes Act, to which I must advisedly apply, until I am better instructed, the term "meanness," has yet, at any rate, had no defence offered in the course of this debate. (_Cheers._) The remaining point of the administration of the law on which I will comment is of a different character. It is with respect to exclusive dealing. It will be remembered that we, in our charges against the bill last year, did not say that it justified the proceedings of exclusive dealing. I do not believe the act does justify them; but this I am bound to say, that the interpretation of the act appears to be deliberately applied in a variety of instances for the punishment of simple exclusive dealing. The right honorable gentleman ought to know, if he does not, for I delivered the speech in his hearing, that when I spoke of the dismissal of curates by rectors and the deprivation of their daily bread, that men with wives and children were to be turned out upon the world, I was not, as the right honorable gentlemen charged me, comparing them with cases of conspiracy, but I was comparing them with cases of exclusive dealing, which, while they are practised freely both in Ireland by the opponents of the Nationalists, and in England by the party of the right honorable gentleman (_Opposition cheers_), unpunished by the law, I believe it is stretching and straining even the deplorable and shameful act of last session to make it include such cases. Now, sir, I wish to mention eight cases, but first I find I was quite wrong in saying that two of the cases for selling newspapers had been dismissed. They were not. The defendants were released upon promise, and the other four punished. I have now before me eight cases of exclusive dealing, two of which were dismissed, but in all of which the Government proceeded. In one of these cases a man was punished with a month's hard labor for refusing to shoe a horse for a boycotted person; another, for refusing to sell groceries to a boycotted person; a third, for refusing to shoe a horse; and a fourth, for declining to deal with emergency men. Those are all cases of exclusive dealing. They are not cases of conspiracy. In fact, these men have been punished for doing in Ireland that which would be perfectly lawful in England, and which, I believe, is perfectly lawful even in Ireland, under any fair interpretation of the act. Now, has the act succeeded, or it has failed? I do not think gentlemen will object to the proposition that its real object was to put down the National League and the Plan of Campaign. Now I come again to the speech of the honorable member for East Cork (Mr. W. O'Brien) which, I venture to say, was a memorable speech. (_Cheers_). To him, as I have never had the privilege of private or personal communication, I will say publicly in this House that though, as he says, imprisonment under the condition he describes is a hard and severe thing, which drives the iron into the soul of a man and leaves him such that he hardly can be again what he was before, yet I trust that the right honorable gentleman has derived some consolation and encouragement to persevere, at least, in lawful and patriotic efforts for setting right the wrongs of his country. I hope he has derived it from the enthusiastic reception that he encountered in this House and out of it, and, I will add, for the credit of honorable gentlemen opposite, from the respectful, and, to some extent, I think, the symathetic silence with which they also accorded him a kindly reception. (_Cheers._) The speech of the honorable member was of an importance which has not in the smallest degree been appreciated by the Chief Secretary. The right honorable gentleman has argued the case in his old manner; and whereas the honorable gentleman charged him with having said that he pleaded ill-health against the prison dress, what appears is that the Chief Secretary says that the honorable member had sheltered himself by ill-health against the demand to wear prison dress. For that statement of the right honorable gentleman, as amended and admitted, there is not a shadow of foundation. (_Irish cheers._) That you cannot contradict, although you have plenty of myrmidons, and, perhaps, some minions. You cannot show that either by word or act, the honorable member entered this ignominious plea. Why has the right honorable gentleman passed by in silence another personal statement of the honorable member, which I tell him he had no right to pass by, and with respect to which I will now put it to him and the House, that after he has had an opportunity of making Lord Salisbury's defence, he has utterly failed to tender any defence at all? (_Cheers._) Mr. BALFOUR. He did not require any. Mr. GLADSTONE. That is just the matter I am going to argue, and we will see how it stands. The statement of the member for Cork was to this effect, that Lord Salisbury in one of his speeches, after some jocose references which exhibit the tase of the Prime Minister (_Opposition cheers_), and which are a great deal too common in speeches proceeding from such quarters,
United States." "Say, you needn't----" began Jasniff, and then drew back, looking much disturbed. "You--er--you needn't rake up old times. Those things are all settled, and I've got as much right to be here as you have." "Well, you won't come back to Oak Hall," said Sam. "Don't want to come back. I'm going to a better school." "And so am I," said Link Merwell, as if he was anxious to make the fact known to his former schoolmates. "I don't care where you go, so long as you don't bother us any more," rejoined Dave. "Oh, you haven't seen the end of us yet, has he, Nick?" said Link Merwell, appealing to his crony. "Not much he hasn't," retorted Nick Jasniff. "We are going to Rockville Military Academy," continued Link Merwell, mentioning a school which, as my old readers know, was located not a great distance from Oak Hall. In the past there had been many contests between the students of the two seats of learning, and the rivalry was very bitter. "Rockville!" cried the senator's son. "I shouldn't think they'd want you there." "Say, you take that back, or I'll--I'll----" blustered Merwell, and then stopped, not knowing how to proceed. "Oh, say, come on, you fellows," broke in Nat Poole, who was growing scared, thinking there might be a fight. "You can talk this over some other time. Just remember what we started out to do. Hurry up, let's do it," and he motioned his companions towards the racing car. "I'm ready to go ahead," answered Pete Barnaby, climbing into the driver's seat. "Come on, pile in, if you're going." "I don't want Dave Porter and his crowd to think I am afraid of them," growled Link Merwell. "We'll meet you after you get back to Oak Hall," sang out Nick Jasniff. "And we'll settle old scores." "Well, you look out that you don't get your fingers burnt trying to do it!" retorted Dave. And then the racing car started off and was speedily lost to view around a turn of the road. CHAPTER III WHAT HAPPENED AT THE FALLS "What horrid young fellows!" was Jessie's comment. She was trembling from head to foot and her face was pale. "Don't mind what they say," answered Dave, kindly. He thought a great deal of the girl, and it distressed him greatly to see her so worried. "I shouldn't think they'd want Jasniff and Merwell at Rockville," was the comment of the senator's son. "Everybody in that town knows how Jasniff was mixed up in that railroad station affair." He referred to a robbery committed by some men, the particulars of which were recorded in "Dave Porter's Return to School." Nick Jasniff had been in company with the evil-doers, but his share in the transaction had been smoothed over and hushed up by his family. "Well, I heard that the military academy was rather hard up for pupils this term," answered Sam. "About a dozen of the sophs and juniors left, and the enrollment of freshmen was rather slim. I suppose on that account the authorities can't be overly particular as to who they take in." "And of course Merwell and Jasniff had their sides of their stories to tell," said Dave. "You can be sure they didn't tell matters as Doctor Clay would have done." "Or as we might have done--had we been asked," broke in Sam. "Well, I hope you boys keep away from them when you get to school," said Laura. "What do you suppose they are up to now, Dave?" asked the shipowner's son. "I don't know, Phil; but from the look on Nat Poole's face I should think----" And then Dave stopped short. "What?" "Well, never mind now. I may be wrong, and there is no use of worrying. Come on, let us get to the Falls,--and try to forget that crowd." And so speaking, Dave started up the touring car he was running, and followed in the direction Pete Barnaby had taken, and Roger came after him. The meeting at the tavern had disturbed all of the girls, and the boys had hard work trying to cheer them up and make them forget the unpleasant encounter. Everybody felt that there was "something in the air," but each person hated to mention it to the others. Presently Dave reached the point where they would have to take to a side road that was deep with dust and hemmed in on both sides by rocks and bushes. Here, in the dust, could plainly be seen the marks of another automobile. "Think they came this way, Dave?" questioned Sam. "Yes,--although some other folks may be at the Falls on an outing." "Oh, I hope we don't meet them again!" said Belle Endicott. The two machines were running slowly and close together. They passed on around a long curve, and over a small hill, and then came in sight of the river, glistening in the sunshine between the trees. From a distance came the roar of the Falls, where a fairly large body of water rushed steadily over the rocks. "Isn't it a shame that they are going to use the Falls for a mill!" said one of the girls. "Well, this is a commercial age, and so one must expect those things," answered Dave. "But I shall hate to see the Falls used for business. They are so pretty." There was another turn just ahead, and it was lucky for Dave that he was running slowly, for there, across the road, were placed several logs and dead limbs of trees. As it was, he ran directly on top of some of the tree limbs before he could come to a stop, and Roger, so close behind, had to turn into some bushes to avoid ramming the car in front. "Well, of all things!" burst out Phil, while several of the girls screamed in fright. "Who did this?" demanded the senator's son. "It is easy to see who did it," answered Dave. "See the sign?" And he pointed to a big white card, tacked to a post propped up among the logs and tree limbs. On the card was painted, in red, the following: THIS ROAD CLOSED _By Order of Aaron Poole Pres. Eureka Paper Co._ "This is some of Nat's work!" burst out Phil. "That is why he was in such a hurry to get ahead of us." "I believe you," answered Dave. "I was afraid he was up to some trick, but I didn't want to say anything about it until I was sure." "But if Nat is guilty, how did he know we were coming here?" asked Roger. "I guess I can explain that," said Ben. "I was talking to my cousin about it, down at the drug store. Just as we were coming out, after having some soda, I saw Nat behind one of the partitions. He must have heard all we said, and I suppose it made him mad to think we were going to have a good time, and that he wouldn't be in it." "Exactly," returned Dave. "Just as he was mad when he wasn't invited to the party, and tried to spoil the ice-cream." "Do you suppose they have a right to close the road?" questioned Roger. "I don't know. I always thought this was a public highway." "So it is," added Ben. "The paper company bought the ground on one side of the road but not on the other. I don't think they can stop us from going through, even though they may stop us from going down to the Falls." "But if we can't go to the Falls, what is the use of keeping on this road?" asked Laura. "We can go above the Falls, Laura," answered her brother. "There is a beautiful spot there called Lookout Point, where you can look out all over the valley." The matter was talked over for a few minutes, and the boys decided to go ahead, to show that they considered that they had a right to use the road, even if they did not go down to the Falls. The roadway was cleared sufficiently to let the cars pass, and the power was turned on once again. "Be careful, Dave, that you don't run into more trouble!" sang out Roger. "I'll be on the lookout!" was the answer. "And you be prepared to stop quick, too, so as not to run into me." "I'll drop back to a place of safety," returned the senator's son. "There is no use of keeping so close together, anyway." The road wound in and out among the trees, and in some spots was so narrow that the boys had to run with great care, for fear of bumping into the stump of a tree or on the rocks, or switching into some low-hanging branch. Dave had his foot on the brake, ready to stop quickly, should it become necessary to do so. "Hi, there! Stop! Don't you dare to come any further!" The call was an unexpected one, coming just as the leading automobile hove in sight of the Falls. Dave saw Nat Poole hurrying towards him, followed by Merwell and Jasniff. Pete Barnaby was nowhere in sight, and the marks on the narrow road told that his racing car had gone on ahead. "What do you want, Nat?" asked Dave, as coolly as he could, having brought his machine to a standstill. "Can't you read, Dave Porter?" fumed the son of the Crumville money-lender. "Certainly I can read." "Well, then, what are you doing on this road? You know it is closed. You haven't any right on it at all--you or anybody else. You turn around and go back, just as quick as you can." "This is a public road, Nat Poole!" cried Ben. "You hadn't any right to put up that sign." "Humph! A lot you know about it, Ben Basswood! This is my father's land, and I reckon he knows his rights. You are not going down to the Falls to-day to have your picnic." And Nat's small eyes gleamed maliciously. "We don't intend to go down to the Falls,--now that we know how matters stand," said Dave. "But we are going through on this road." "Not much you ain't--not another step!" roared Nat. "That's right, Nat, make 'em keep off your property," put in Link Merwell. "Show 'em that you won't allow a poorhouse nobody to dictate to you," added Nick Jasniff, but in such a low voice that Dave did not catch all he said. "I said we were going through on this road--and we are," answered Dave, calmly, and he started to turn on the power again. As he did this Nat Poole leaped to the road directly in front of the touring car, and Jasniff and Merwell followed suit. "Stop! Don't you dare to touch me, or I'll have the law on you!" screamed the money-lender's son. "We'll fix 'em for you, Nat!" cried Nick Jasniff. "Come on, Link, get to work!" And leaping to one side of the roadway he dragged forth the dead limb of a tree and dropped it in front of the first car. Quick to understand, Merwell followed with another dead limb, and then with some stones. "That's the stuff!" cried Nat Poole, his face brightening. "Pile it up, fellows!" And he, too, ran for some sticks and stones, with which to make the barrier in the narrow roadway more complete. Had Dave elected so to do he might have gone ahead when first this work was done by the enemy. But there was danger of injury both to the big touring car and to those in the roadway, and he did not wish to take the risk. Besides, there was no telling if Roger could get through, and he would not leave the crowd in the second automobile in the lurch. "Now, I reckon you'll have to turn back!" cried Nat Poole, in triumph, after so much had been piled in the roadway that passing was totally out of the question. "Nat Poole, I believe you are the meanest boy in the whole world!" cried Jessie, and there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she spoke. "Humph! You people needn't think that you are going to have the best of me all the time," growled Nat. "We are not doing this against any of the young ladies," said Link Merwell, with a smirk at Laura that made Dave's sister turn away in disdain. "We are only doing it to square accounts with Dave Porter and his cronies. We owe them a good deal,--and this is the first installment." "With a good deal more to follow!" added Nick Jasniff, with a wicked chuckle. "To the best of my knowledge and belief, this is a public highway," said Dave, as calmly as he could. "You have no right to block the road, and I want you to clear that stuff away just as fast as you put it there." "Hear him talk!" cried Link Merwell. "You'd think he was Governor of the State, wouldn't you?" "Don't you mind what he says, Nat," said Jasniff. "If they start to take the stuff away we'll put it back." And then, looking around, he picked up a heavy stick which might be used for a club. He was spoiling for a fight, and only the presence of the girls, and the fact that he and his cohorts were but three against five, kept him from attacking Dave. "Oh, Dave, what shall we do?" whispered Jessie. She was becoming more frightened every minute. "I don't see how we are going to turn around," said one of the other girls. "The trees are too close to the sides of the road." "We are not going to turn around," answered Dave, and his face took on a stern look. He turned to his chums. "How about it?" "I'll fight them before I turn back!" answered Roger. "So will I," added Phil. "I don't believe they have any more right to this road than we have." "Oh, you mustn't fight," cried Laura. "Do you want to let that crowd crow over us, Laura?" asked Dave, flatly. "No, no, Dave! But--but----" And then Laura stopped short, not knowing what to say. She did not wish to see an encounter, nor did she wish her brother and his chums to give in to those who were so unjustly opposing them. CHAPTER IV AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL "This is the time we get the best of Dave Porter!" whispered Link Merwell to his cronies. "I guess we have spoiled their picnic." "I--I--don't think th--they'll fight," faltered Nat, as Dave leaped to the ground, followed by his chums. "Better arm yourselves with clubs," suggested Nick Jasniff. "Remember, we are only three to five." "Maybe we had better--er--go away," returned the money-lender's son, hesitatingly. "No, I am going to see the thing out," answered Jasniff. "So am I," added Merwell. "Don't go, Nat--they won't dare to fight--with the girls looking on." "Whoa, there! Whoa!" came a cry from behind the two touring cars, and looking back the boys and girls saw a man drive up on a buckboard drawn by a spirited horse. "Why, if it isn't Jed Sully!" cried Ben. "Who is he?" questioned Sam. "Sort of a roadmaster in these parts. I suppose he is going around, inspecting the roads and bridges." "Then he ought to be able to tell us about this road!" put in Phil, quickly. "Hello! What's the meaning of this?" demanded Jed Sully, after alighting. And he strode forward and confronted the boys. "How are you, Mr. Sully?" said Dave, for he had met the roadmaster before. "Oh, so it's you, Dave! Blocked up, eh?" And the roadmaster looked first at Dave and his chums and then at those standing on the other side of the barrier. "Who did this?" "They did," answered Roger, and pointed to the other crowd. "What for?" And the roadmaster's voice grew a bit hard. "Nat Poole, there, claims that his father has a right to close this road," explained Dave. "He put up a barrier some distance back, but we passed it. Now he and his friends have put up this." "And we want to know if they have a right to do it," added Ben. "I had an idea the new paper company bought only one side of the road." "So it did," answered Jed Sully. "And even if it bought both sides it couldn't close off this road, which is a public highway." He turned to Nat. "Are you Aaron Poole's son?" "Ye-as," faltered the youth addressed, and he commenced to look worried. "Did your father give you orders to close off this road?" "Why--er--he--that is," stammered Nat. "What business is it of yours, anyway?" he cried. "It is a good deal of my business," responded Jed Sully, warmly. "I am the roadmaster for this district, and I won't allow you or anybody else to close off this road, or any other, without special permission. You had no right to put those logs across the road away back, and put up that sign, and I want you to take 'em away as soon as you can." "Well, my father bought this land, and----" "No, he didn't buy it; the paper company bought it," corrected Jed Sully. "But that gave 'em no right to close the road. You take that stuff out of the way, and at once, or I'll have you locked up." And walking around the barrier he caught Nat by the arm. "Let go--don't you touch me!" screamed the money-lender's son, trying to jerk away. "You let my friend alone," broke in Nick Jasniff, and made a motion as if to use his club. "Here, none of that--or I'll have you all in the lock-up in jig time," said the roadmaster, so sternly that Jasniff allowed the club to drop to his side. He turned again to Dave and his friends. "Did you see these chaps put this stuff here?" "Yes," replied the others. "Then get to work and clear it away instantly, or I'll lock you all up, and these fellows can testify against you," continued the roadmaster, to Nat and his cronies. "Good! that's the way to talk to 'em!" cried Roger, in a low voice. "I guess Nat didn't expect to meet the roadmaster," returned Sam. The money-lender's son and his cronies tried to argue the matter, but Jed Sully would not listen to them. He knew Aaron Poole, and had no love for the man who had on more than one occasion foreclosed a mortgage, and driven people out of house and home. "I'll give you ten minutes to clear the road," he said, taking out a big silver watch. "If it ain't cleared by that time I'll take you over to Lumberdale and lock you up." "I won't touch a stick!" cried Jasniff, defiantly. "Nor I," added Merwell. "Oh, but--er--I don't want to be locked up!" whined Nat. "You said your dad had a right to the road," said Jasniff, in disgust. "I thought he did have, but--er--I guess I was mistaken. Oh, come on and help me!" pleaded Nat, and set to work without further delay, to clear the road. Jasniff and Merwell were very angry, but they did not care to let their crony do all the work, and they were a bit afraid of Jed Sully, so presently they took hold and aided the money-lender's son in clearing the highway. "As soon as you've finished here you'll come back with me and clear the other spot," said the roadmaster. "And you can tear up that sign, for it is no good." "I'm going to put it up near the Falls," answered Nat. "Nobody can come down there any more." "Then you'd better put up a fence to keep 'em out," was the roadmaster's comment. "You don't want us to come back with you, do you?" asked Dave, in a whisper. "We are off for a picnic and it is getting late." "No, you can go on if you want to," answered Jed Sully. "I can manage them, I reckon. If they give me any trouble I'll put 'em in the lock-up and get you to testify to what they did on the road." "Oh, Dave, let us go on!" cried Jessie. "I don't want to stay here another minute." The others were all anxious to depart, and as soon as the road was entirely clear the two touring cars were started up. "Hope you have a nice time clearing away that other stuff," remarked Phil to Nat Poole and his cronies, as the machine passed on. "Don't you crow,--we are not done with you yet!" shouted Merwell, and Jasniff shook his fist at the departing cars. Nat Poole felt so humiliated he turned his gaze in another direction. "It was a lucky thing that that roadmaster came along when he did," remarked Sam, when the scene of the encounter had been left behind. "If he hadn't showed up I don't know what we should have done." "Maybe we would have had a fight," returned Ben. "Oh, I am glad it didn't come to that!" cried Jessie, and her face showed her relief. "Wonder what became of the racing car and Pete Barnaby?" questioned the shipowner's son. "Perhaps Barnaby went ahead to make more trouble for us!" said Dave. "We had better be on our guard," he called to Roger. "I'll follow you at a safe distance, as I did before," answered the senator's son. The Falls were passed, and then they commenced to ascend a long hill, leading to Lookout Point. Just before the spot was reached they took to another side road, and were glad to see that no other automobile had passed that way. "We'll have the Lookout all to ourselves," said Dave. "And that is just what we want." "Maybe I'm not getting hungry!" cried Phil. "I really believe I could choke down a chicken sandwich, if I was forced to do it!" "'Forced' is good!" answered Dave. "Girls, be sure to keep the hamper away from Phil, or he won't leave enough behind to feed a canary," and this remark brought forth the first laugh since the trouble on the road. They drove as close to Lookout Point as the road allowed, and then placed the two cars in a safe place under the trees. "We must keep our eyes open," whispered Dave to the other boys. "That other crowd may sneak up and try to damage the machines, so as to make us walk from here." "We'll watch out," answered Roger; and the others said the same. While the boys started a campfire over which to boil some coffee, and obtained a bucket of fresh drinking water from a nearby spring, the girls spread a tablecloth over some flat rocks and set around the dishes and the things to eat. There was more than enough of everything to go around, and it was particularly appetizing after that long ride in the fresh air. "I tell you, this is something like," cried Dave, munching on a sandwich and a stalk of celery. "I shouldn't mind having a picnic like this once a week regularly." "Make it twice a week," returned Roger, who was eating a sandwich from one hand and a hard-boiled egg from the other. "Who'll have some coffee?" cried Phil, coming up with a pot of the steaming beverage. "I've got to strain it through the corner of a napkin, but I guess that won't hurt it." "Napkin, indeed!" cried Jessie. "There is a strainer in the spout." "Oh, is there? I didn't look in to see. Well, here goes! Coffee! Ten cents a cup, or two cups for a nickel! Good for the complexion and warranted to cure the blues!" cried the shipowner's son gayly, and swung the pot around over his head. "Hi! Look out there!" roared Sam, clapping his hand to his ear. "I like coffee, but I don't drink it that way!" And he wiped off a few drops that had reached him. "Phil is fined one horseshoe nail for spilling the coffee," cried Dave. "Don't nail me so soon!" answered the shipowner's son gayly. "Shoo! Just to hear that!" murmured Roger. "I'm too hoarse to answer to that!" said Ben. "Say, do you know why a lawyer likes to drink coffee?" asked Sam. "Why?" asked the girls, in a chorus. "Because there is always a fee in it for him," was the answer. And then the joker had to dodge an olive and a pickle that Dave and Phil hurled at him, while all the girls giggled. An hour was spent over the lunch, the boys doing their best to entertain the girls and succeeding admirably. Of course a good many of the things that were said were silly, but everybody was in good humor and out for a good time, so what did it matter? In their high spirits they forgot all about the unfortunate occurrence of the morning. After the lunch the boys helped the girls clean up and put away what was left, and then all strolled about, first to the edge of the Lookout, to view the scenery, and then to the woods and the brook beyond. Dave naturally paired off with Jessie, while Roger went with Laura, and Phil with Belle. "Well, it won't be long now before I'll be off again for Oak Hall," said Dave, as he and Jessie stood where the brook tumbled over a series of rocks, making a murmur pleasant to hear. "Yes, Dave, and I--I shall be sorry to have you go," said Jessie, looking him full in the eyes. "You'll write to me often, won't you, Jessie?" he asked, in a lower voice. "I'll answer every letter you send, Dave," and now she cast down her eyes for a moment. "I always do." "I know it--and you can't imagine how much I treasure those letters," he went on. "Well, I--I think a lot of your letters, too," she whispered. "Then you want me to write very often?" "Yes." "All right, I will. And, Jessie----" continued Dave, but just then a shout from Sam interrupted him. CHAPTER V THE BOYS AND A BULL "Wonder what Sam wants?" said Dave, as the shouting continued. "I guess I'll have to go and see." He ran over the rocks in the direction of the cries, and soon came in sight of his chum. "Hurry up!" cried Sam. "I want you!" "What is it, Sam?" questioned Dave. "We are going to have trouble." "What, have Jasniff and those others come here?" "No, but maybe it's just as bad, Dave. Just look toward the autos." Dave did as requested, and his face became a study. He was half inclined to laugh, yet, having been brought up in the country, he well knew the seriousness of the situation. The two automobiles stood side by side, about three yards apart. Between them was a big and angry-looking bull, tramping the ground and snorting viciously. The bull had a chain around his neck, and to the end of this was a small-sized tree stump, which the animal had evidently pulled from the ground in his endeavor to get away from his pasture. The tree stump had become entangled in the wheel of one of the automobiles, and the bull was giving vicious jerks, first one way and then another, causing the machine to "slew around" in an alarming fashion. "Sam, we'll have to get him out of there!" cried Dave. "If we don't he may break that wheel--or do worse." "I'm afraid he'll run off with the car!" gasped Sam. He was almost out of breath from running and calling. By this time the others were coming up. At the sight of the savage bull several of the girls commenced to scream. "Oh, we'll be killed!" "Can't somebody drive him away!" "Look! look! He is dragging one machine into the other!" "You girls had better keep back," warned Dave. "If he breaks loose he may come for you." "Oh, Dave, do be careful!" cried Jessie. "Yes, yes, don't go too close," added his sister. "What do you suppose we can do?" questioned the senator's son, as the boys gathered in a group at a little distance, and the girls got behind them. "If I had a hooked pole I'd soon fix him," answered Dave. "How?" asked Phil, who knew little or nothing about bulls. "See that ring in his nose? I'd hook him in that and then keep him at the end of the pole. That always brings 'em to terms." "But we haven't got any hook," said Ben. "We might make one, though," he added. A small hatchet had been brought along--with which to chop firewood--and securing this the boys quickly cut two slender but strong saplings, and trimmed them of their branches. "There is a hook in our car," said Jessie. "If you could only get that!" "Don't you try it," said Ben. "I've known a bull to leap into a wagon, and this one might leap right into the auto and wreck everything--and hurt you in the bargain." "I'll use a tree root for a hook," said Dave, and quickly found what he wanted, and bound it fast to one of the poles by means of a fishing line he happened to be carrying. "Now, Ben, you stand by to prod him, if he gets too rambunctious," went on Dave, as he handed the second pole to his chum. "All right," answered Ben. He, too, had been brought up on a farm, and knew a little about bulls. The animal had quieted down for a moment, and was grazing on some grass between the automobiles. But, as the lads approached, he raised his head, pawed with his hoof, and gave a vicious snort. "He means to fight, Dave!" cried Ben. "We've got to be on our guard." "Oh, do be careful!" cried Belle. To her this beast of the farm looked more terrifying than those she had seen on the ranch. With great caution Dave approached the bull from one side while Ben approached from the other. The animal snorted again, and lowered his horns. All the girls began to scream. "Better be quiet," called out Dave. "You'll only excite him more." "Oh, be careful!" answered Jessie, in a horrified whisper. At that moment the bull backed up against one of the automobiles, and then moved forward again. This action released the tree stump, so that the beast was now free to go where he pleased. He started straight for Ben. "Prod him!" yelled Dave, and Ben promptly did as requested, catching the bull in the mouth with his stick. Then, as the animal turned aside, Dave jumped closer, put out his stick, and caught the improvised hook in the nose ring. "Good! you've got him!" shouted Phil. "Can we help you any?" "I don't think so--keep quiet," was the reply. The bull snorted wildly for a moment, and Dave had all he could do to keep the animal at the pole's length. But he knew how to twist the ring, and this speedily brought the beast to terms. The snorting ceased, and the bull stood still, glaring viciously at his captor, but not daring to attempt an attack. "Come, gee haw!" cried Dave, presently; and with caution commenced to pull on the pole. Slowly the bull stepped after him, dragging the chain and stump behind him. "What are you going to do with him?" called out Roger. "Tangle him up in the bushes--if I can," was the answer, and Dave turned in the direction of the brushwood lining the watercourse. At this point there were a good many sharp rocks and twisted roots of bushes and trees, and it was not long before the loose stump caught on them. "Come on, we'll fasten him good and hard!" cried Phil, dashing up behind the bull, and as quickly as it could be done he and the others piled some loose rocks against the tree stump, so that it would be next to impossible for the bull to work it free. "Now you can let him go, Dave," said Ben, who had stood guard with his pole. "We've got him as fast as he ever was." And then Dave let loose from the ring, much to the animal's relief, for he chanced to have a tender nose, and the twisting of the ring hurt him a good deal. "Are you sure he won't get away and come for us?" questioned Laura, as all drew to a safe distance. "He won't get away very soon," answered Ben. "But we ought to notify his owner of what we have done." "Whose bull is it?" asked one of the girls. "I give up--I never saw him before." "I think the bull belongs to the Hook Stock Farm," said Dave, mentioning a farm located about a mile away. "I don't know of anybody else around here who would own a bull. When we go home we can stop at the farm and tell them of what has happened." Leaving the animal quietly grazing among the bushes, the boys and girls walked over to the automobiles, to learn if any damage had been done. In his movements the bull had scratched some paint from the wheels and the mudguards, but that was all, for which they were thankful. "Well, it's about time to start for home," said Dave, consulting his watch. "Remember, we are to go the long way around,--and stop at the Hook place in the bargain." "I'm ready to go," answered Jessie. The presence of the bull still disturbed her. Yet it was some little time before they started, for the things had to be packed, and several of the boys and girls wanted to get photographs of the picnic party. Then Dave cranked up, and Roger did the same. All piled in, and the start for home was begun. "I'll wager that Nat Poole, Link Merwell, and Nick Jasniff are the maddest boys in this State," was Phil's comment, as the first car rolled on, with he and Dave on the front seat. "I believe you, Phil," answered the driver of the machine. "And if Jasniff and Merwell really do go to Rockville Academy you can make up your mind that they will cause us all the trouble possible." "I don't believe the better class of fellows at the military academy will take to those chaps." "Neither do I. But there are some mean boys at that school--you remember them--and Merwell and Jasniff will flock with that bunch. Oh, they'll try their best to down us, you see if they don't!" declared Dave. On the road beyond the picnic ground they came to a spot where some rocks and logs had been piled up and then taken away again. All gazed at the spot with interest. "I guess Pete Barnaby did this--under directions from Nat Poole," said Ben. "Yes, and Jed Sully made him, or the Poole crowd, clear it away again," answered Dave. "They'll not close this road as long as Sully is roadmaster." "Be on your guard, Dave!" sang out Roger. "Those rascals will play some trick on us, if they can." "I'm on the watch!" answered Dave. As they bowled along all kept their eyes on the alert, and it was well that they did so, for at a turn they suddenly came upon some broken bottles thrown down just where the machines had to pass. Dave gave a yell of warning, and turned off the power and applied the brakes just in time, and, as before, Roger had to turn into the bushes, to avoid striking the turnout ahead. "They thought they'd make us cut our tires," said Dave. "Right you are," answered Phil. "Phew! If we had gone over that glass we might have had some nasty punctures or blow-outs." "They ought to be arrested for this
that she could lay her hands on. The girls about had plenty of paper-covered books, and she always managed to get hold of them somehow. It was when she had promised to read them through in no time that her father had to go without his supper oftenest. Storms asked to look at some of these volumes, if she had any on hand. After a little hesitation, Judith went into the kitchen and brought a soiled novel, with half the paper cover torn off, which had been hidden under the bread-tray. The smile deepened on the young man's lips as he turned over the dingy pages and read a passage here and there. After a while he lifted his eyes, full of sinister light, to hers, and asked if her father knew that she read these books so much. The girl laughed, and said that she wasn't likely to tell him, when he thought she was busy with the tracts and history books that he left for her. Then she gave a little start, and looked anxiously out of the window, saying, with awkward hesitation, that her father was working for the clergyman that day, and might come home early. Storms arose at once. He had no wish to extend the pleasant acquaintance he was making to the old man, if he was "good as gold." As he passed into the lane, the cow, that was daintily cropping the grass on one side, lifted her head and followed him with her great, earnest eyes, that seemed to question his presence there as if she had been human. He took a step out of the way and patted her on the neck, at which she tossed her head and wheeled up a bank, evidently not liking the caresses of a stranger. CHAPTER III. WAITING AND WATCHING. That night, long after the party at "Norston's Rest" had returned from the hunt, John Storms, a farmer on the estate, who stood at the door of his house chafing and annoyed by the disappearance of his son with the new horse that had just been purchased, heard an unequal tramping of hoofs and a strange sound of pain from the neighboring stable-yard. Taking a lantern, for it was after dark, he went out and was startled by the limping approach of the poor hunter, that had found its way home and was wandering about the enclosure with the bridle dragging under his feet, and empty stirrups swinging from the torn saddle. The old man had been made sullen and angry enough by the unauthorized disappearance of his son with the new purchase; but when he saw the empty saddle and disabled condition of the lamed animal, a sudden panic seized upon him. He hurried into the house with strange pallor on his sunburned face and a tremor of the knees, which made him glad to drop into a chair when he reached the kitchen, where his wife was moving about her work with the same feverish restlessness that had ended so painfully with him. The woman, startled by his appearance, came up to him in subdued agitation. "It is only that the new beast has come home lamed, and with the saddle empty," he said, in reply to her look. "I must go to the village, or find some of the grooms. Keep up a good heart, dame, till I come back." "Is he hurt? Oh, John! is there any sign that our lad has come to harm?" questioned the poor woman, shaking from head to foot, as she supported herself by the back of the chair from which her husband started in haste to be off. "I will soon know--I will soon know"--was his answer. "God help us!" "God help us!" repeated the woman, dropping helplessly down into the chair, as her husband put on his hat and went hurriedly through the door; and there she sat trembling until another sound of pain, that seemed mournfully human, reached her from the stable-yard. This appeal to her compassion divided somewhat the agony of her fears, and strengthened her for kindly exertion. "Poor beast," she thought, "no one is taking care of him." She looked around; no aid was near. The tired farm-hands had gone to bed, or wandered off to the village. She was rather glad of that. It was something that she could appease her own anxiety by giving help to anything in distress. Taking up the lantern, which was still alight, she went toward the stable, and there limping out of the darkness met the wounded horse. An active housewife like Mrs. Storms required no help in relieving the animal of its trappings. She unbuckled the girth, took off the saddle, and passed her hand gently down the fore leg, that shrunk and quivered even under that slight touch. "It is a sprain, and a bad one," she thought, leading the poor beast into his stall, where he lay down wearily; "but no bones are broken. Oh, if he could only speak now and tell me if my lad is alive--or--or--Oh, my God, have mercy upon me, have mercy upon me!" Here the poor woman leaned her shoulder against the side of the stall, and a burning moisture broke into her eyes, filling them with pain; for this woman was given to endurance, and, with such, weeping is seldom a relief; but looking downward at the pathetic and almost human appeal in the great wild eyes of the wounded horse, tears partaking of compassion as well as grief swelled into drops and ran down her face in comforting abundance. So, patting the poor beast on his soiled neck, she went to the house again and heating some decoction of leaves that she gathered from under the garden wall, came back with her lantern and bathed the swollen limb until the horse laid his head upon the straw, and bore the slackened pain with patience. It was a pity that some other work of mercy did not present itself to assuage the suspense that was becoming almost unendurable to a woman waiting to know of the life or death of her only son. She could not sit down in her accustomed place and wait, but turned from the threshold heart-sick, and, still holding the lantern, wandered up and down a lane that ran half a mile before it reached the highway--up and down until it seemed to her as if unnumbered hours had passed since she had seen her husband go forth to learn whether she was a childless mother or not. "Would he never come?" She grew weary at last, and went into the house, looking older by ten years than she had done before that shock came, and there she sat, perfectly still, gazing into the fire. Once or twice she turned her eyes drearily on a wicker basketful of work, where a sock, she had been darning before her husband came in, lay uppermost, with a threaded darning needle thrust through the heel, but it seemed ages since she had laid the work down, and she had no will to take it up; for the thought that her son might never need the sock again pierced her like a knife. Turning from the agony of this thought she would fasten her sad eyes on the smouldering coals as they crumbled into ashes, starting and shivering when some chance noise outside awoke new anguish of expectation. The sound she dared not listen for came at last. A man's footstep, slow and heavy, turned from the lane and paused at the kitchen door. She did not move, she could not breathe, but sat there mute and still, waiting. The door opened, and John Storms entered the kitchen where his wife sat. She was afraid to look on his face, and kept her eyes on the fire, shivering inwardly. He came across the room and laid his hand on her shoulder. Then she gave a start, and looked in her husband's face: it was sullenly dark. "He is not dead?" she cried out; seeing more anger than grief in the wrathful eyes. "My son is not dead?" "No, not dead; keep your mind easy about that; but he and I will have a reckoning afore the day breaks, and one he shall remember to his dying day. So I warn you keep out of it for this time: I mean to be master now." Here Storms seated himself in an empty chair near the fire, and stretching both feet out on the hearth, thrust a hand into each pocket of his corduroy dress. With the inconsistency of a rough nature, he had allowed the anguish and fright that had seized upon him with the first idea of his son's danger to harden into bitterness and wrath against the young man, the moment he learned that all his apprehensions had been groundless. Even the pale, pitiful face of his wife had no softening effect upon him. "He is alive--but you say nothing more. Tell me is our son maimed--is he hurt?" "Hurt! He deserves to have his neck broken. I tell you the lad is getting beyond our management--wandering about after the gentry up yonder as if he belonged with them; going after the hunt and almost getting his neck broke on the new horse that fell short of his leap at a wall with a ditch on t'other side, that the best hunter in Sir Noel's stables couldn't'a' cleared." "Oh, father! you heard that; but was he much hurt? Why didn't they bring him home at once?" cried the mother, with a fever of dread in her eyes. "Hurt! not half so much as he deserves to be," answered the man, roughly. "Why, that horse may be laid up for a month; besides, at his best, there isn't a day's farm-work under his shining hide. The lad cheated us in the buying of him, a hunter past his prime--that is what has been put upon me, and serves me right for trusting him." "But you will not tell me, is our Richard hurt?" cried the woman, in a voice naturally mild, but now sharp with anxiety. "Hurt! not he. Only made a laughing-stock for the grooms and whippers-in who saw him cast head over heels into a ditch, and farther on in the day trudging home afoot." The woman fell back in her chair with a deep sigh of relief. "Then he was not hurt. Oh, father! why could ye not tell me this at first?" "Because ye are aye so foolish o'er the lad, cosseting a strapping grown-up loon as if he was a baby; that is what'll be his ruin in the end." "He is our only son," pleaded the mother. "Aye, and thankful I am that we have no more of the same kind." "Oh, father!" "There, there; don't anger me, woman. The things I heard down yonder have put me about more than a bit. The lad will be coming home, and a good sound rating he shall have." Here farmer Storms thrust his feet still farther out on the hearth, and sat watching the fire with a sullen frown growing darker and darker on his face. As the time wore on, Mrs. Storms saw that he became more and more irritated. His hands worked restlessly in his pockets, and, from time to time, he cast dark looks at the door. These signs of ill humor made the woman anxious. "It is going on to twelve," she said, looking at the brazen face of an old upright clock that stood in a corner of the kitchen. "I am tired." "What keeps ye from bed, then? As for me, I'll not quit this chair till Dick comes home." Mrs. Storms drew back into her chair and folded both hands on her lap. She was evidently afraid that her husband and son should meet while the former was in that state of mind. "I wonder where he is stopping," she said, unconsciously speaking aloud. "At the public. Where else can he harbor at this time of night? When Dick is missing one is safe to look for him there." "It may be that he has stopped in at Jessup's. I am sure that pretty Ruth could draw him from the public any day." "But it'll not be long, as things are going, before Jessup 'll forbid him the house. The girl has high thoughts of herself, with all her soft ways, and will have a good bit of money when her god-mother dies and the old gardener has done with his. If Dick goes on at this pace some one else will be sure to step in, and there isn't such another match for him in the whole county." "But he may be coming from the gardener's cottage now," suggested the mother. "Young men do not always give it out at home when they visit their sweethearts. You remember--" Here a smile, full of pleasant memories, softened the old man's face, and his hard hand stole into his wife's lap, searching shyly for hers. "Maybe I do forget them times more than I ought, wife; but no one can say I ever went by your house to spend a night at the ale-house--now, can they?" "But Dick may not do it either," pleaded the mother. "I tell you, wife, there is no use blinding ourselves: the young man spends half his time treating the lazy fellows of the neighborhood, for no one else has so much money." The old lady sighed heavily. "Worse than that! he joins in all the low sports of the place. Why, he is training rat-terriers in the stable and game-chickens in the barnyard. I caught him fighting them this very morning." "Oh, John!" exclaimed the woman, ready to accuse any one rather than her only child; "if you had only listened to me when we took him out of school, and given him a bit more learning." "He's got more learning by half than I ever had," answered the old man, moodily. "But you had your way to make and no time for much study; but we are well-to-do in the world, and our son need not work the farm like us." "I don't know but you are right, old woman. Dick never will make a good farm-hand. He wants to be master or nothing." "Hark--he is coming!" answered the wife, brightening up and laying her hand on the old man's arm. CHAPTER IV. THE SON'S RETURN. When Richard Storms entered his father's house that night it was with the air of a man who had some just cause of offence against the old people who had been so long waiting for him. His sharp and rather handsome features were clouded with temper as he pushed open the kitchen door and held it while two ugly dogs crowded in, and his first words were insolently aggressive. "What! up yet, sulking over the fire and waiting for a row, are you? Well, have it out; one of the men told me that brute of a horse had got home with his leg twisted. I wish it had been his neck. Now, what have you got to say about it?" The elder Storms started up angrily, but his wife laid a hand on his shoulder and besought silence with her beseeching eyes. Then she was about to approach the young man, but one of the dogs snapped fiercely at her, and when the son kicked him, retreated, grinding a piece of her dress in his teeth. "You had better take care, mother! The landlord of the 'Two Ravens' has had him in training. He's been in a grand fight over yonder, and killed more rats than you'd want to count. That makes him savage, you know." Mrs. Storms shrunk away from the danger, and in great terror crouched down by the oaken chair from which her husband had risen. The old man started forward, but before he could shake off the hold of his wife, who seized his garments in a spasm of distress, Richard had kicked both dogs through the door. "Take that for your impudence," he said, fiercely. "To the kennel with you! it's the only place for such curs. Mother, mother, I say, get up; the whelps are gone. I didn't expect to find you out of bed, or they shouldn't have come in." Mrs. Storms stood up, still shaking with fear, while Richard dropped into his father's chair and stretched his limbs out upon the hearth. The old man took another seat, frowning darkly. "We have been talking about you--father and I," said the old woman, with a quiver of the passing fright in her voice. "No good, I'll be sworn, if the old man had a hand in it," answered the son. "You are wrong," said the mother, pressing her hand on the young man's shoulder. "No father ever thought more of a son, if you would only do something to please him now and then. He was speaking just now of letting you have more charge of the place." "Well, that will come when I am my own master." "That is, when I am dead!" broke in the old man, with bitter emphasis. "I almost wish for death now. What your mother and I have to live for, God only knows." "Hush, John, hush! Don't talk so. Richard will forget his idle ways, and be a blessing to us yet. Remember how we have spoiled him." "There, there, mother, let him have it out. There's no use reasoning with him when his back is up," said the young man, stretching himself more comfortably and turning a belligerent look on the father. Mrs. Storms bent over her son, greatly troubled. "Don't anger your father, Dick. He was planning kindly for you." "Planning what?--to keep me tied down here all my life?" "If I have tried to do that," said the old man, "it came from more love than I felt like talking about. Your mother and I haven't many pleasures now, and when you are away so much we feel lonesome." Dick turned in his chair and looked keenly at the old man, amazed by his unusual gentleness. The lines that seemed hard as steel in his young face relaxed a little. "Why couldn't you have talked like that oftener, and made it a little more pleasant at home? One must have something of life. You know that as well as I do, father." "Yes; your mother and I have been making allowances for that. Maybe things might have been managed for the better all along; but we must make the best of it now. As your mother says, a well-to-do man's only son should make something better of himself than a farm drudge; so we won't quarrel about it. Only be careful that the lass your mother and I have set our hearts on gets no evil news of you, or we shall have trouble there." Richard laughed at this and answered with an air of bravado, "No fear, no fear. The girl is too fond of me." "But her father is a skittish man to deal with, once his back is up, and you will find it hard managing the lass: let him see you with them terriers at your heels, and he'll soon be off the bargain." "If you are troubled about that, kick the dogs into the street and sell the game-chickens, if they crowd mother's bantams out. How can a dutiful son do more than that?" "Ah, now you talk like a sensible lad! Make good time, and when you bring the lass home, mother and I will have a bit of a cottage on the land, and mayhap you will be master here." "Is he in earnest, mother?" "I think he is." "And you, father?" "For once I mean that your mother shall take her own way: mine has led to this." The old man looked at the clock, and then on the wet marks of the dogs' feet on the kitchen floor, with grave significance. Young Storms laughed a low, unpleasant laugh, which had nothing of genuine hilarity in it. "You are right, father. We should only have gone from bad to worse. I don't take to hard work, but the other thing suits me exactly. You'll see that I shall come up to time in that." Just then the old clock struck one with a hoarse, angry clang, as if wrathful that the morning should be encroached upon in that house. Mrs. Storms took up one of the candles and gave it to her son. "Good-night, my son," she said, looking from the clock to her husband with pathetic tenderness in her voice. "Dick, you can kiss me good-night as you used to when I went to tuck up your bed in the winter. It'll seem like old times, won't it, husband? Shake hands with your father, too. It isn't many men as would give up as he has." The young man kissed his mother, with some show of feeling, and shook hands with his father in a hesitating way; but altogether his manner was so conciliatory that it touched those honest hearts with unusual tenderness. "You see what kindness can do with him," said Mrs. Storms, as she stood on the hearth with the other candlestick in her hand, while her husband raked up the fire. "He has gone up to bed with a smile on his face." "People are apt to smile when they get their own way," muttered the old man, who was half ashamed of his concession. "But I have no idea of taking anything back. You needn't be afraid of that. The young man shall have his chance." A sob was the only answer he got. Looking over his shoulder, as he put the shovel in its corner, he saw that tears were streaming down the old woman's face. "Why, what are you crying about, mother?" "I am so thankful." The good woman might have intended to say more, but she broke off suddenly, and the words died on her lips. The candle she held was darkened, and she saw that the wick was broadening at the top like a tiny mushroom, forming that weird thing called a "corpse-light" in the midst of the blaze. "What is the matter? What are you afraid of?" said the farmer, wondering at the paleness in his wife's face. "Look," she said, pointing to the heavy wick. "It seems to have come all of a sudden." "Only that?" said the old man, scornfully, snuffing out the corpse-light with his thumb and finger. A shudder passed over the woman as those horny fingers closed on the corpse-light and flung it smoking into the ashes. The old man had no sympathy with superstitions, and spoke to his wife more sharply than was kind, after the double fright that had shaken her nerves. Perhaps this thought came over him, for he patted her arm with his rough hand, awkwardly enough, not being given to much display of affection, and told her that she had for once got her own way, and mustn't be frightened out of what sleep was left for them between that and daylight by a smudge of soot in the candle. "You can't expect candles to burn after midnight without crumpling up their wicks," he said, philosophically: "so come to bed. The lad is sound asleep by this time, I dare say." These kind arguments did not have the desired effect, for the mother's eyes were full of tears, and her hand quivered under the weight of the candlestick, spite of all her efforts to conceal it from the observation of her husband. In less than ten minutes the farmer was asleep, but his wife, being of a finer and more sensitive nature, could not rest. Like most countrywomen of her class, she mingled some degree of superstition even with her most religious thoughts. Notwithstanding her terror occasioned by the snarling dog, she might have slept well, for the scene that had threatened to end in rageful assault had subsided in unexpected concession; but the funereal blackness in that candle coming so close upon her fright completely unnerved her. Certain it is no sleep came to those weary eyes. Close them as she would, that unseemly light glared upon them, and to her weird imagination seemed to point out some danger for her son. At last the poor woman was seized with a desperate yearning of motherhood, which had often led her to her son's room when the helplessness of infancy or the perils of sickness appealed to her--a yearning that drew her softly from her bed. Folding a shawl over her night dress, she mounted the stairs and entered the chamber where the young man lay in slumber so profound that he was quite unconscious of her presence; for neither conscience nor tenderness ever took growth enough in his nature to disturb an animal want of any kind. But the light of a waning moon lay upon his face, so the woman fell upon her knees, and gazing on those features, which might not have seemed in any degree perfect to another, soothed herself into prayer, and, out of the tranquillity that brings, into the sleep her nature craved so much. The morning light found her kneeling thus, with her cheek resting on his hand, which, in her tender unconsciousness, she had stolen and hidden away there. CHAPTER V. CONFESSING HIS LOVE. "Norston's Rest" was now in a state of comparative quiet. The throng of visitors that had made the place so brilliant had departed, and, for the first time in months, Sir Noel could enjoy the company of his son with a feeling of restfulness; for now the discipline of school and college lay behind the young man, and he was ready to begin life in earnest. After travelling a while on the continent he had entered upon the dignity of heir-ship with all the pomp and splendor of a great ovation, into which he had brought so much of kindly memory and generous purpose that his popularity almost rivalled the love and homage with which his father was regarded. Sir Noel was a proud man--so proud that the keenest critic must have failed to discover one trace of the arrogant self-assumption that so many persons are ready to display as a proof of superiority. With Sir Noel this feeling was a delicate permeation of his whole being, natural to it as the blue blood that flowed in his veins, and as little thought of. Profound self-respect rendered encroachment on the reserve of another simply impossible. During the stay of his son at "The Rest" one fond hope had possessed the baronet, and that grew out of his intense love of two human beings that were dearest to him on earth--the young heir and Lady Rose Hubert. It could not be asserted that ambition led to this wish; though the lady's rank was of the highest, and she was the inheritor of estates that made her a match even for the heir of "Norston's Rest." The baronet in the isolation of his long widowerhood had found in this fair girl all that he could have desired in a daughter of his own. Her delicacy of bloom and beauty appealed to his æsthetic taste. Her gayety and the spirituelle sadness into which it sometimes merged gave his home life a delightful variety. He could not think of her leaving "The Rest" without a pang such as noble-hearted fathers feel when they give away their daughters at the altar. To Sir Noel, Lady Rose was the brightest and most perfect being on earth, and the great desire of his heart was that she should become his daughter in fact, as she already was in his affections. Filled with this hope he had watched with some anxiety for the influence this young lady's loveliness might produce upon his son, without in any way intruding his wishes into the investigation; for, with regard to the perfect freedom which every heart should have to choose a companionship of love for itself, this old patrician was peculiarly sensitive. Having in his own early years suffered, as few men ever had, by the uprooting of one great hope, he was peculiarly anxious that no such abiding calamity should fall on the only son and heir of his house, but he was not the less interested in the choice that son might make when the hour of decision came. With all his liberality of sentiment it had never entered the thoughts of the baronet that a man of his race could choose ignobly, or look beneath the rank in which he was born. To him perfect liberty of choice was limited, by education and family traditions, to a selection among the highest and the best in his own proud sphere of life. Thus it became possible that his sentiments, uttered under this unexplained limitation, might be honestly misunderstood. Some months had passed since the young heir had taken up his home at "The Rest"--pleasant months to the baronet, who had looked forward to this period with the longing affection which centred everything of love and pride on this one human being that man can feel for man. At first it had been enough of happiness that his son was there, honored, content--with an unclouded and brilliant future before him--but human wishes are limitless, and the strong desire that the young man should anchor his heart where his own wishes lay grew into a pleasant belief. How could it be otherwise, when two beings so richly endowed were brought into the close companionship of a common home? One day, when the father and son chanced to be alone in the grand old library, where Sir Noel spent so much of his time, the conversation seemed naturally to turn upon some future arrangements regarding the estate. "It has been a pleasant burden to me so far," said the old gentleman, "because every day made the lands a richer inheritance for you and your children; but now I am only waiting for one event to place the heaviest responsibility on your young shoulders." "You mean," said the young man, flushing a little, "that you would impose two burdens upon me at once--a vast estate and some lady to preside over the old house." The baronet smiled, and answered with a faint motion of the head. Then the young man answered, laughingly: "There is plenty of time for that. I have everything to learn before so great a trust should be given me. As for the house, no one could preside there better than the Lady Rose." The baronet's face brightened. "No," he said, "we could hardly expect that. In all England it would be difficult to find a creature so lovely and so well fitted to the position." Sir Noel faltered as he concluded this sentence. He had not intended to connect the idea of this lady so broadly with his wishes. To his refined nature it seemed as if her dignity had been sacrificed. "She is, indeed, a marvel of beauty and goodness," answered the young man, apparently unmindful of the words that had disturbed his father. "I for one am in no haste to disturb her reign at 'Norston's Rest'." Sir Noel was about to say: "But it might be made perpetual," but the sensitive delicacy natural to the man checked the thought before it formed itself into speech. "Still it is in youth that the best foundations for domestic happiness are laid. I look upon it as a great misfortune when circumstances forbid a man to follow the first and freshest impulses of his heart--" Here the baronet broke off, and a deep unconscious sigh completed the sentence. Young Hurst looked at his father with awakened interest. The expression of sadness that came over those finely-cut features made him thoughtful. He remembered that Sir Noel had entered life a younger son, and that he had not left the army to take possession of his title and estates until after mid-age. He could only guess at the romance of success or disappointment that might have gone before; but even that awoke new sympathy in the young man's heart for his father. "I can hardly think that there is any time of life for which a man has power to lay down for himself certain rules of action," he said. "To say that any man will or will not marry at any given period is to suppose him capable of great control over his own best feelings." "You are right," answered Sir Noel, with more feeling than he usually exhibited. "The time for a man to marry is when he is certainly in love." "And the person?" questioned the young man, with a strange expression of earnestness in his manner. "Ah! The person that he does love." Sir Noel, thinking of his ward, was not surprised to see a flood of crimson rush over the young man's face, nor offended when he arose abruptly and left the library. CHAPTER VI. CONFESSIONS OF LOVE. The baronet might, however, have been surprised had he seen Walton Hurst pass the Lady Rose on the terrace, only lifting his hat in recognition of her presence as he hurried into the park. "He guesses at my madness, or, at the worst, he will forgive it," ran through his thoughts as he took a near route toward the wilderness, "and she--ah, I have been cruel in this strife to conquer myself. My love, my beautiful wild-bird! It will be sweet to see her eyes brighten and her mouth tremble under a struggle to keep back her smiles." Thoughts like these occupied the young man until he stood before the gardener's cottage, and looked eagerly into the porch, hoping to see something besides the birds fluttering under the vines. He was disappointed: no one was there; but glancing through the oriel window he saw a gleam of warm color and the dejected droop of a head, that might have grown weary with looking out of the window; for it fell lower and lower, as if two unsteady hands were supporting the face. Hurst trod lightly over the turf, holding his breath, lifted the latch and stole into the little parlor in which the girl, we have once seen in the porch, was sitting disconsolately, as she had done hours each day through a lonely week. "Ruth!" The girl sprang to her feet, uttering a little cry of delight. Then an impulse of pride seized upon the heart that was beating so wildly, and she drew back, repudiating her own gladness. "I hoped to find you here and alone," he said, holding out both hands with a warmth that astonished her; for she shrunk back and looked at him wonderingly. "I have been away so long, and all the time longing to come; nay, nay, I will not have that proud lift of the head; for, indeed, I deserve a brighter welcome." The girl had done her best to be reserved and cold, but how could she succeed with those pleading eyes upon her--those two hands searching for hers? "It is so long, so long," she said, with sweet upbraiding in her eyes; "father has wondered why you did not come. It is very cruel neglecting him so." Hurst smiled at her pretty attempt at subterfuge; for he really had not spent much of his time in visiting Jessup, though the gardener had been a devoted friend during his boyhood, and truly believed that it was old remembrances that brought the young man so often to his cottage. "I fancy your father will not have missed me very much," he said. "But he does; indeed, indeed he does." "And you cared nothing?" Ruth dropped her eyelids, and he saw that tears were swelling under them. Selfishly watching her emotion until the long black lashes were wet, he lifted her hands suddenly to his lips and kissed them, with passionate warmth. She struggled, and wrenched her hands away from him. "You must not--you must not: father would be _so_ angry." "Not if he knew how much I love you." She stood before him transfigured; her black eyes opened wide and bright, her frame trembled, her hands were clasped. "You love me--you?" "Truly, Ruth, and dearly as ever man loved woman," was the earnest, almost solemn, answer. The girl turned pale, even her lips grew white. "I dare not let you," she said, in a voice that was almost a whisper. "I dare not." "But how can you help it?" said Hurst, smiling at her terror. "How can I help it?" The girl lifted her hands as if to ward him away. This announcement of his love frightened her. A sweet unconscious dream that had neither end nor beginning in her young experience had been rudely broken up by it. "You tremble--you turn pale. Is it because you cannot love me, Ruth?" "Love you--love you?" repeated the girl, in wild bewilderment. "Oh, God! forgive me--forgive me! I do, I do!" Her face was one flame of scarlet now, and she covered it with her hands--shame, terror, and a great ecstasy of joy seized upon her. "Let me go, let me go, I cannot bear it," she pleaded, at length. "I dare not meet my father after this." "But I dare take
her knowledge of children and their feeding. I am very fond of her and so very grateful, but I have never once really talked to her.” “I thought so—it is strange—strange. However, I am most thankful this business is done, we may now be able to begin those papers to-night—I look forward with much pleasure to them. Curious what very opposed views we take on this subject—h’m, I fancy I am right, dear.” Mrs. Waring thought not, and signified the fact by a very decided shake of her sweet golden locks, that looked more like spun silver in the moon’s rays. They had now reached the great flight of steps that flanked either side of the entrance door. When they got to the top, by one accord they paused, and leant over the castellated ivy-clad wall that protected the platform of granite slabs connecting the two flights of steps, and gazed out into the evening, but a sudden horrible sound made Mrs. Waring jump nervously, then quiver from head to foot, and caused her husband’s brows to contract as sharply as if there had been a spring in them. It turned out to be Gwen scraping an old violin and coughing frightfully all down the corridor. “Dearest, do you think we should summon Dr. Guy?” said Mr. Waring when they had somewhat recovered. “Oh no, love, Mary assures me there is no danger whatever, she calls that dreadful noise ‘a simple stomach cough’.” “In that case we must request Mary to keep her in the nursery, such noises are most upsetting. Pray be as quick as you can, my darling, we might get to work at once. But surely it is not the gong I hear?” “Love, I fear it is only too true,” cried Mrs. Waring in trembling distress. “I had no idea of the lateness of the hour, and oh, Henry, we were late again yesterday and the servants were quite upset. Oh, you will be quick with your dressing, will you not?” Then with one last little hand-squeeze she fled to her room with a terrified glance into the solemn face of a hurt-looking footman. CHAPTER IV. WHEN he had bidden farewell to the Warings in his porch and watched them curiously till a clump of firs hid them from him, Mr. Fellowes went back to his study with a very curious assortment of expressions on his face; there was a good deal of amusement there, a decided touch of sadness, much doubt, and some dismay. He had, however, little time to reduce this confusion to order; an impatient tap at the door was followed by the entrance of a bright eager little woman, in a long trailing garment of a curious combination of heliotrope and pale yellow. “John, are you ready for me? May I hear all of it?” she demanded, putting her little hand on his big ones. “I feel in rather a yeasty condition at this minute, but I’ll subside shortly, no doubt. Will you be able to hold out a little longer?” “Haven’t I borne it for two mortal hours and twenty minutes? Were they talking all the time? I was in an awful fright it was something I mustn’t hear. Two scientists in trouble about their souls, perhaps?” “Fortunately I can divulge all I know, but you needn’t be flippant. It’s all very funny, but it’s just as woefully sad. What on earth are you at?” “Pinning up my skirts, the fire would ruin this colour in a night. Do you like my gown?” “I do, but whether the parish will, is another question.” “Oh, never mind the parish, I’ll teach it; you have no idea how easy it is to get round people if you know the track. Is that yeast risen high enough or has it gone sad? Remember I have held out a frightful time.” “Hold out another five minutes while I write a note, I must catch this post.” When Mr. Fellowes brought his little seventeen-years old wife home to the respectable parish of Waring, just four years before this time, it was the generally received opinion of most competent judges that he had a good deal to answer for. To begin with, she was American, that fact in itself was quite without precedent. The entire clerical annals of the diocese did not furnish a like example. This, to any right-minded judgment, was as much as an insult to the parishioners, who were in consequence put to much trouble and inconvenience in rubbing up their imaginations to tackle the case, having no previous experience to go upon. A deceased Colonel, of whom they knew a great deal too much, and a living peer, of whom on the contrary, they knew a great deal too little, both inhabitants of the county, had indeed married Americans, the results in the one case being disastrous; of the other they possessed no proven data, but they were at least at liberty to draw their own conclusions. But for a parson to do this thing! It was unheard-of, and partook of the nature of a scandal. Then Mrs. Fellowes was pretty and gay, and it must be confessed _chic_. They could have put up with the prettiness and even the brightness,—they were used to certain varieties of both these things in their own girls,—but the _chicness_!—that was the quality their souls struck against, it seemed expressly to have been sent by Satan himself “to buffet them withal”. And the girl’s dress for a clergyman’s wife, was simply audacious! And yet when a large and representative female conclave had met and dissected her “things” over half a dozen teas, they were forced to the conclusion that she had not a complex or expensive article in her whole wardrobe. “So much the worse,” Lady Mary, the leader of the parish _ton_, remarked, and with some reason too, “it shows that it is not the clothes that stamp the girl, it is the girl who stamps the clothes. There is something fundamentally wrong there.” This being put in the form of an axiom spread widely, and carried much weight. This was four years ago, however, and things had changed a good deal. Mrs. Fellowes’ husband was no fool, he knew what he was about when he brought home, as the finish to the one long holiday of his life, the little New England girl to be his helpmate. CHAPTER V. “NOW, Ruth,” said Mr. Fellowes when he had finished and despatched his note, and, lighting a cigarette, settled himself in his armchair opposite to her, “I’ll yield you up all I know. It was the queerest interview I ever had with that queer pair.—You needn’t wriggle with anticipation, my dear, no human creature could reproduce the scene with any justice to himself or to his subject.—Waring had most palpably put on for the occasion a brisk man-of-the-world air that was superb, but his wife seemed dreamier than ever, and limper, and her hat looked rather askew.” “It always does, but do go on.” “Directly you give me a chance, dear. Waring opened the campaign with a little small talk as he always does, but it was quite off-hand and reckless to-day. He had hardly set his gentle tap fairly flowing however, when his wife suddenly woke up and chipped in with quite phenomenal clearness and precision, “‘Dear Henry, suppose we state the object of our call, we can converse afterwards.’ “Then it all came out. First one stated a fact or a theory then the other had his innings. It was hard enough to follow the two and to watch them at the same time; one never likes to miss the moment when they clasp hands again and the little looks they cast on each other in the process. It appears the pair meditate a definite experiment on those wretched children, and want my help in securing a bear-leader for the task.” “Good gracious!” gasped Mrs. Fellowes. “Go on,” she commanded grimly, “what is it?” “On no account whatever is either to be sent to school or allowed to hold intercourse with other children; no woman is to have any hand in their tuition; naturally, cricket, football, and every other boyish sport is to be carefully excluded from the curriculum, and all Christian teaching is to be utterly tabooed.” “Mercy on us!” “The facts of the Old Testament are to be imparted to them with other ancient history, and they are to be well instructed in the natural sciences. By these means they will learn to know God in His Works—with a capital ‘W’—Mrs. Waring observed this solemnly to her husband for my benefit. ‘Exactly, my darling,’ he replied, with a most surprising alacrity—they had rehearsed this point, those two babies.—When the children are launched into their teens and have presumably arrived at an age of more or less discretion, the Bible and any other existing evidences of Christianity obtainable, are to be formally presented to them. The imps may then receive these or reject them according to their particular turn of mind, but in no case are they to be biased. “The parents have seemingly occupied themselves a good deal with this part of the experiment and regard this presentation of a choice of beliefs as a sort of function on which they mean to take exhaustive observation.” The rector paused to roll another cigarette; when he had finished and lighted it, he went on. “Ruth, you are an intelligent woman and won’t misjudge me when I say, that this experiment in itself seems to be a reasonable one. “This Bible-reading question is an awful one,” he went on, musing aloud, “we all have had, every decent English man, woman, and child of us has had the Bible religiously drilled into him from the time of consciousness till whatever time he can manage to read it for himself, then he is exhorted to carry on the exercise independently, and a good percentage of people do; you’d be astonished at the number of people who never miss reading their Bible every day of their lives, and perhaps more astonished still if you were to know the amazingly small effect it has on the lives of these people. Even from an intellectual point of view, it is incredible to me how little the average human being has grasped the heritage he possesses in this book. “I was speaking to a girl the other day—by far the most intelligent one I know in these regions—she was talking to me with perfect unrestraint and frankness about all sorts of things. She told me she could see no beauty whatsoever in the Bible, and that she had never been able to derive an atom of encouragement or assurance from anything in it. If it did not bore, it upset her, and made belief harder. It had become a mere patter to her by vile reading and intonation, and the remarkable turns of thought given to it by many minds insulted her reason. Even the poetry of the diction had been spoilt for her and seemed, she said, to reek of half-fledged curates.—Under some conditions this experiment of the Warings might prove a success.” “Oh, but with that mother!” “Ah, yes, that alters the whole aspect of affairs! If you could only have heard the passionless, analytical style in which Waring and his wife discussed the matter and speculated on the issue, which they think will be more typical in Gwen than in Dacre, his brute strength being, in their opinion, his strong point, and his theological side hardly worth considering. They throw it in, however, ‘careless like’ as, if the experiment is to be tried, it is just as easy to try it on two as on one.” “Mercy on us,” again said Mrs. Fellowes, clattering the fire-irons viciously. “By the way, Waring amused me intensely by one revelation he made, he could hardly get it out, and I saw him fling a pathetically-deprecating glance at his wife and give her hand a squeeze before he began. He felt he had to account for the luckless Dacre’s strength of legs, of which he seems to have as poor an opinion as the Psalmist, he feared I might fall into the error of casting the blame on him or his wife, so he determined I should know the real cause. ‘You will hardly believe me,’ he observed, ‘when I tell you that my wife with her refined intellectuality is the outcome of long generations of soldiers and of—ahem,—famous duellists, and I fear our son, Dacre, is a very clearly-defined specimen of throwing-back.’ Poor Mrs. Waring! she felt her ancestry keenly and got as red as a rose during the confession.” “Goodness gracious me! What a woman! what a pair! What in the name of goodness brought the two together and made them marry each other and produce children. If I were Providence and had that on my mind, I’d never look up again.” “My dear child!” “John, in the present state of my feelings, brought on by you yourself recollect, you must forget your sacerdotal character and only remember my state of original sin. Why should two beautiful children’s lives be spoilt for the vagaries of a pair who never had any right to bear children? Think of Gwen’s sad old face full of the trouble of all ages, think of her naughtiness with that horrible unique sort of infernal touch about it; that painting herself blue is the most childish escapade I remember. “I was at Mrs. Doyle’s yesterday and she was telling me a lot about Mrs. Waring before we came. After Dacre’s birth, she said it was absolutely ghastly to see her with the child, she was terrified to hold it, and trembled like a leaf whenever she absolutely had to. Poor Mrs. Doyle, she got quite irritated and excited about one thing; it seems she could not nurse her own children at all, and that Mrs. Waring was a capital mother from that point of view, and Mrs. Doyle seemingly could not see at all why an unnatural little bundle of scientific data should score off her, a good wholesome creature made for a mother, in this manner.” “It was certainly too bad, and one would never have expected it of Mrs. Waring,” said the rector laughing. “Oh, and whenever Mary brought either of the babies to her or she met them in the corridors or about the grounds, Mrs. Doyle says her one request was that Mary should take the creature away and give it food, it looked faint! They were both huge, flourishing, healthy babies, I hear.” “Ruth,” said Mr. Fellowes suddenly, “I wish those people would keep away from church.” “You are shedding your sacerdotal character with a vengeance! What do you mean?” “You have no idea how they distract me, sitting there together with their eyes far away and their ears sealed, except at the odd times they give those spasmodic simultaneous starts, and twist their thoughts back for the minute to what’s going on.” “But, John, for the sake of the parish—” “If the parish can’t keep up to its ordinary pretty low water-mark without this prick to its piety it must be in a poor state, and even more of a discredit to me than I imagine. They are far too good to be asked to play this weekly farce for the parish’s sake. It was Hopkins, not I, who insisted upon this church-going and of course they gave in in their gracious simple way; and now, not even a water spout would stop them from coming, they are so concerned for my feelings. What a pair of unconscious Christians they are to be sure! One sees it cropping up in all directions.” “I wish it would appear anyway in the management of their children, I don’t see many traces of it there. When is this wretched experiment to be set going?” asked Mrs. Fellowes. “As soon as I can procure a suitable person to conduct it. I think I know a fellow who might do.” “What business have they with children, those two?” cried Mrs. Fellowes with a little spasm of pain twisting about her mouth. “I don’t believe those children ever got properly hugged in all their lives by that inhuman little mother of theirs. And oh, Gwen’s dress! That is awful!” “Ah, yes, that makes the whole affair very much sadder! Don’t you think dinner is ready? Yes, those children have a great deal to fight against, it isn’t their ancestors alone that will handicap them, poor little beggars.” “Cartloads of saints for ancestors wouldn’t be worth a rap to them with an eerie little creature like that for a mother,” said Mrs. Fellowes hotly, in the pretty lazy drawl into which her touch of twang had developed itself. “I pity that wretched coming tutor.” She let her skirts drop and gave them a dexterous kick as she went out, to give them the correct “hang”. CHAPTER VI. THERE was no time lost in setting the experiment going, and it was soon in full swing. Its birth pangs were awful, and embraced in their throes a great number of persons. The parents’ sufferings were so complex and so quite peculiar to themselves that it is impossible to expound them to an unsympathizing public. The tortures that couple endured during the first few months after the initial stage of intellectual development had been instituted and was being dealt with, were severe, but they were in no wise connected with their children’s anguish at the sudden and unexpected onslaught on their higher parts. _Their_ misery arose chiefly from the jarring and inconveniently close contact with tutors, whom, in their unconscious Christian way, they found it their duty to admit for some part of every day into the edge of their lives. This was a terrible discipline, more especially as during these times the unhappy instructors also thought it their duty to ease off their slough of learning and to expand their social parts, and thus the manufacture of small talk became a daily necessity in the lives of the distracted pair. They had both taken infinite pains to provide silent entertainment for their guests—or rather succession of guests—in the tutoring line. The standard scientists were first tried, and these seeming to have but little effect, a whole cartload of mixed literature, including all the rag-tag and bobtail of fiction the bookseller wanted to get off his hands, was imported and spread about enticingly; theology and ethics were also given a show, till at last all the tables at one side of the room were spotted with slate, yellow, and dull blues and browns, and every form of journal from the _Times_ to the _Police News_ was scattered broadcast over the place, all with a view to lay hold on the tutorial mind and keep it independent of its entertainers. Directly the tutor for the time being, entered at his appointed hour, they rose simultaneously from their work, as if the same spring moved them, hurried towards him with outstretched hands, sat down side by side facing him, and broke into conversation, which if gaspy, and at times inconsequent, from the sudden upheaval of waves of thought in one or other of them, was kept up with gallant relentlessness till the period of detention was at an end. As soon as the clock announced this event, they broke off suddenly with a click, and the tutor was, so to speak, shot out, and the rent he had made in the lives of his entertainers was patched up as well as might be for that day. But during the entire first course of those tutors, Mr. and Mrs. Waring felt always as if they were suffering from ragged edges. As for Gwen and Dacre, their first taste of reclamation from the savage state, was bitter, sudden, and condign. Civilization seems the last thing in the world capable of soothing the savage breast, especially if the savage who owns it is young and in rude health. Then Mary suffered. It was a hard blow to find her fledglings torn from her in one fell stroke, and only allowed to return at odd moments for repairs to skin and clothes. Poor Mrs. Fellowes fretted herself into a regular feverish attack. As for the tutors themselves, the less said of their sufferings the better. Three succumbed to them in four months. The one that followed, a most excellent person and cut out for a family man, broke off his engagement for fear of consequences, his slight substratum of scientific knowledge having got so much stirred up while at Waring Park, that he grew bewildered. If such results as he had to deal with, he reflected, were to be seen in the green tree what might not come to pass in the dry? And he was well aware of the cloudy ancestry of his lady-love, and on his own side had not very much to boast of. It was unfortunate. But it certainly did seem sacrilegious impertinence in him to attempt what his betters had so egregiously failed in. CHAPTER VII. MANY tutors had come and gone, and much had been endured both from the children’s point of view and from that of the instructors. But time went on unheeding, and Gwen and Dacre were lying under an old cherry-tree in the orchard one day late in August. The sun shone aslant through the crimson-tinted leaves above them, and threw flickering rosy shadows across the faces of the two as they lay there in the cool grass, with wisps of fern under their heads for pillows. Dacre, however, seemed to benefit but little from this arrangement; his head was oftener off its support than on; he twisted and turned and wriggled and plunged, even his toes moved visibly through his thick boots. He was supposed to be reading, and kept up the pretence from time to time, but the words conveyed no sense to his restless eyes, that moved as if they were on wires. Now and again he got irritated and threw the book down with a snort. The sister and brother spent much of their time together nowadays; fate had perhaps quite as much to do with this close companionship as inclination, the groom’s boy and his like, except at stolen moments, being for Dacre things of the past. This and various other reforms had been brought about by Mr. Fellowes and one tutor of an exceptionally strong mind. While Dacre wriggled, his sister lay quite still on her back with her legs stretched out, and with a considerable reach of stocking visible between the edge of her frock and her shoes. She had one arm curled round her neck with the sharp elbow stuck out uncompromisingly in Dacre’s direction. It was useful as a buffer and saved her many a lunge. The other hand held a book, a queer old edition of Elia, which she was deeply sunk in until she fell to watching Dacre with a look of curious mockery on her red curled lips. “I’d give my eyes to go to school!” burst out the boy after an interval of comparative silence. Mutterings never counted in Dacre. “So you have said six times this afternoon, not to mention the mutters,” said the girl, “what do you want to go to school for?” “You know without any telling.” “I want to hear again.” “To jeer at a fellow, I suppose?” “I won’t jeer, and I might help you,” she said with a laugh. He looked at her face dubiously, it was inscrutable enough, but the mockery had left her lips. “I want to go, I hate to be here, Greggs is a big enough fool but not quite so much as the others, he ain’t all bad, I’ll say that. But what’s he to other boys and cricket and football and larks—oh, you know!” “I wonder why on earth they let you read _Tom Brown_ when such heaps of books are forbidden,” said Gwen reflectively. “They have brought all this on themselves,” she added, knitting her brows in the exact manner of her mother. “We have to bear what we earn, we hear that often enough, I don’t see why they shouldn’t apply it to themselves. Dacre, you’re an awful ass, if I wanted all those things I should have had them long ago.” “All very well to say that,” grunted the boy, “I’d like to know how.” “I’ll tell you,—I’d worry till I got them.” “I worry pretty well as it is,” he said with a self-satisfied grin. “Yes, in a stupid squally way—you get into a rage and make a row and an ass of yourself generally, then you get punished and repent, or pretend to,—anyway nothing is heard of you till the next bout. You might be a dead cat for all the importance you are—of course you’re forgotten, and they go on working in peace. “Now if I wanted a thing and wanted it badly I should take good care never to be forgotten; I should let them see there was to be no peace as long as I was in the house; I should make myself felt from the garrets to the kitchen; I should gain my end,” she concluded with calm finality. By this time the sun had forsaken their tree and had flickered on to one nearer the west, and in the evening light her face gleamed out almost ghastly in its pallor. “Gwen, you’re queerer and queerer! Why don’t you do all this for yourself? You are quiet enough now, nothing only sulky, why don’t you do what you say I ought to, yourself?” “For what?” was the sharp retort. “I don’t want boys and cricket and football and larks.” “What do you want then?” She jumped up from her pillow and looked out after the westering sun, her eyes dark and dilated, her red lips parted. “What do I want?” she slowly repeated, “I want—oh, you would not understand what I want, but worrying won’t get it.” She caught up her book again and threw herself face downwards on the sward. “That’s the way! You’ll never tell me anything,” said Dacre angrily. “I’ll tell you one thing, and that’s I’ll help you to go to school, and you’ll go if you aren’t a common ass, and if you’ll do all I tell you.” “Golly! I’ll do anything in the world for you if you’ll only get me out of this hole,” he blurted out in a spluttering fit of gratitude. “Perhaps, even, I might help you to get what you want, if you didn’t make such a deadly secret of it,” he added looking at her as if he might somehow extract it from her unawares. But her lips were tightly shut and her eyes looked dead and cold. “One might as well expect to get blood from a turnip,” muttered Dacre in the choice vernacular of the groom’s boy. “Oh Lord! that brutal bell, lessons again! But you like ’em,” he said raising himself slowly and turning on her vindictively. “There’s nothing else to like; pick up your book and come. I hate to look at Gregg’s eyes when we are late, I think he had cats for his ancestors, and not very long ago either, when he talks quick he always spits. Oh, that vile bell, we may as well run, he can’t see us from the school-room window or I wouldn’t give him that much satisfaction.” “When will you begin the help,” panted Dacre, as they pulled up at the nearest point out of sight of the school-room. “I’ll think to-night and tell you—Ugh! Dacre, wipe your face you get so perspirationy after the shortest run; I never do.” “No thanks to you, when one can see through you for thinness.” The next evening when lessons were put away, and the school-room tea over, Gwen, instead of absorbing herself in a book until bedtime, as she generally did, took a restless fit. She moved about in a noiseless sweeping way she had; she threw the window open breathlessly, and craned her head far into the breezy night. A sudden gust that was carrying on a wild dance with some maple leaves, caught sight of her hair and seized on it as a new plaything, or perhaps mistook it for some of the orange-gold leaves, and swept great lengths of it out among them till her white face seemed caught in a whirling net of brilliant gold. When she drew back at last panting, she shut the window and went over to Dacre. “You’re pretty tidy,” she said, “for you, but you might just take that black smudge off your nose. Do I look right?” “You look as mad as a hatter, but you generally do that, only I think your hair makes you look madder than ever.” She caught her hair bodily, gave it a violent shake, then took out her handkerchief and rubbed her cheeks until they glowed scarlet. “What are you at, making yourself like a turkey-cock?” demanded Dacre. “We’ll both go into the library,” said she in a sort of studied calm, “I heard them go in after dinner and they think I’m sick and don’t eat enough if I’m white. Come on quick, now, while I’m red.” Dacre came near and looked into her face with some curiosity. “You’re madder to-night than I ever saw you,” he observed. “You can go, you will if you want to, of course,—I’ll not, not if I knows it.” “If you don’t I’ll do all I possibly can to keep you at home.” That and her look were decisive. He followed her with an angry snort, and they went swiftly down the low, broad oak stairs with their winding curved balustrade, down through the softly-carpeted corridors. When they reached the library door they stood with one accord, stock-still. “You’re whiter than ever,” said he. “Wipe your nose, you’ve rubbed the black all over it instead of off it. Am I red now?” “You’re magenta.” “Come on then.” When the door opened slowly and showed both their children standing in the soft glow of the lamps, Mr. and Mrs. Waring started up in some dismay. “Is anything wrong, my dears? Are you ill?” cried Mr. Waring, while his wife came forward nervously and peered anxiously from head to foot of the two. By this time even Gwen’s courage had waned and the old feeling of having come to judgment was fast gaining on her. Dacre was already a flaccid lump. “You appear well, dears,” said Mrs. Waring relieved, raising herself from her inspection, “and Gwen’s colour seems to me to be healthier than usual.” Gwen felt smothered and speechless but she made a vehement effort and got out in an appealing hushed kind of way, “We are quite well, mother, but we came to see you, we thought you might have time to talk to us and let us stay a little, we have been good at our lessons so long.” The child lifted her eyes as she spoke, and turned them hungrily from father to mother in a way that sensibly embarrassed them. Mr. Waring took his finger from between the pages of a book, came forward, and looked searchingly into his child’s face and then at his wife, who seemed too astonished to take any active part in the proceedings. “Will you not sit down?” he said politely, pulling a couple of chairs towards the pair, “pray sit down.—You have no objection, dearest, have you?” “No, oh no, I am very pleased indeed, and it is also very pleasant to hear you are advancing in your studies,” said Mrs. Waring rather supinely. There seemed so very little one could say to one’s children. Mrs. Waring passed her small hand across her brow, and tried to look unpreoccupied, but it was hard not to show feeling when a valuable train of thought was broken, and hours of good work rendered null and void by this unfortunate intrusion. Her husband felt keenly for the gentle little woman, and naturally a slight feeling of irritation smote him as he turned his gaze on his inconvenient offspring who bore it in stolid silence. Dacre cast one rapid murderous look on his sister then he sullenly accommodated himself to his surroundings and sat on like a log. As for Gwen, her tears were so near the surface that she had to swallow them with a gulp, her eyes grew dull and lifeless, the brilliant colour had all faded, and her cheeks had a ghastly, streaky, livid look, from the scrubbing. “Would you like something to eat, my dears?” said Mrs. Waring eagerly. She would not sit down but hovered above her children, she could not fathom Gwen’s horrid look of temper, and by this time the streaky cheeks had quite a revolting look. Her mother started at sight of it, and whispered in quite an audible voice, “Her skin seems unclean and mottled. Dearest, I will speak to Mary, a Gregory’s powder I should recommend.” Gwen’s flush deepened the streaks to lines of blood, and she could hardly keep from shrieking out her wrath and indignation, but she controlled herself and said in a harsh level voice, “We would like nothing to eat, thank you, we’ve had our tea, we came to see you, you don’t want us. Dacre, I think we might go.” Then to the absolute staggering of the boy, she turned, caught his hand, and dragging him along by it went up and stood before her parents, her eyes gleaming strangely. “Good-night, mother, good-night, father—oh, good-night!” “Good-night, my dears,” said Mr. Waring blandly, and seeing that they still waited he stooped down stiffly and kissed the foreheads of both of them, then, with the air of a man who has done his duty, he remarked, “Dacre’s health seems to be more robust than his sister’s, I think you are wise in recommending something of an anti-febrile nature.” The children were half out of the room by this time, and Mrs. Waring’s eyes followed them with a puzzled stare. Something had evidently been forgotten. “Ah, of course,” she cried, her face lighting, and running forward she put a soft detaining hand on a shoulder of each of her children and laid a small kiss on the middle of Gwen’s cheek. Then she stooped to Dacre and did the same by him. She wondered a little as she went up to Mary’s room why Gwen shuddered when she touched her. “I wonder if she’s feverish,” she thought.—“Oh, what agonies of responsibility parents have to endure,” she sighed, with yearning self-pity, as soon as she reached the head of the stairs. When the children got to the nursery, Dacre faced his sister with glaring eyes. “Beast!” was his sole observation. “Let me alone, oh, let me alone!” she cried, “and, Dacre, open the windows, I feel smothered.” “You should live on the top of a windmill,” he grumbled, but he did as she bade him, and watched her with some puzzled concern. She soon recovered from her smothering and drew in her head and leant against the window in silence for a few minutes, then she said with calm decision, “Oh yes, you can go to school, there is neither reason nor justice in your staying here. They might have prevented it to-night if they’d liked.” “How?” “Oh, you wouldn’t understand.” “Well, of all the beasts! Girls’ secrets are such fools of things, too! Don’t look like that, it’s awful with your scratchy face.” “Oh, go to bed, do!” “I wish you would, I think you are going to be sick, I’ll call Mary.” “Dacre, don’t dare to, I’m as well as anything. I wish I was a witch and could fly over those trees on a broomstick.” She peered eagerly out of the window, out over the tree tops and the whirling leaves, up into the dark heavens. “You look witchy enough now with your awful yellow hair that looks as if it were alive with fire-flies.” “Dacre, go to bed, do, I want to think of the plan.” “Oh, if you want that, I’ll clear, I’d have gone before only I thought you were going to be sick.” Gwen turned a half-mocking half-wistful look upon him. “You’re a good old thing and it isn’t your fault if you are an ass, only I wish you weren’t,” she said to herself when he had gone, “it wouldn’t all be so beastly then.” She
The most extensive general view of the great Folgefond snow-field is obtained from the high land which lies between Roldal and Seljestad on the east side, and from the neighbourhood of Teröen, at the entrance to the Hardanger Fjord, on the west. In sailing into a west-country fjord, and observing how it winds along with no great breadth between the rocky cliffs, that rise higher and higher the farther we penetrate, we could quite believe it to be a real fissure in the earth's crust. {42} We receive the impression that the steep sides of the fjord must continue down to immense depths. Soundings show, however, that they soon turn off to a somewhat flat bottom, that a cross-section is almost in form like a trough, with more or less sloping sides, whose height is small compared with the breadth of the trough; but, as the fjords are, as a rule, very long--the Hardanger Fjord being about 116 miles--we nevertheless get very considerable depths in the fjord basins, viz., from 2,500 to 4,000 feet. [Sidenote: Fjord formation] These characteristic and uniformly shaped basins are not found anywhere except in those countries that have once been covered by inland ice, nor is there any other natural force known that is able to hollow out such peculiar trough-like basins. Ice-cut land has always quite a decided and easily recognizable character, and a Norwegian fjord landscape might, therefore, quite easily be mistaken for a scene from the west coast of Scotland, or for {43} one from the lakes of Italy or Switzerland. The fjord glaciers in the west country were formed by the confluence of ice-streams from the upper valleys. These valleys, too, have everywhere acquired the same peculiar trough-shaped cross-section, where the sides curve together towards a flat bottom. This glacial excavation further differs distinctly from the more even lines of river erosion in a longitudinal section. Each glacier works according to its own power, without being associated very closely in level with the branch valleys, as is always the case where running streams have produced the river beds. In these deep west-country valleys, especially, it is noticeable how often the shape of the side valley opens out far up the slope of the side-wall of the main valley, so that the rivers must fall in rapids and waterfalls over this impediment. Even if two glacier streams of equal power flowed together, it would be an {44} exception if they had excavated to exactly the same depth; there are, therefore, continual ledges in the longitudinal section of the valleys, alternating with rapids and waterfalls. All these characteristics are unknown in those countries where the rivers have had to make their own regular lines of fall, but they are always found in glacier-scored land. [Illustration: Bondhus Glacier, Hardanger Fjord] There is not much room for extensive valleys on the narrow peninsulas between the fjords, nor is the distance between the head of the fjord and the watershed very great, being steep. The rivers are therefore short, although in many places the volume of water is comparatively large, owing to the heavy rainfall and, in spring and early summer, to the quickly-melting snow. Thus the depth of the fall down to the fjord head is very steep, and it is therefore here, where the mountain forms are grandest, that the waterfalls are most numerous, and where they are the highest. {45} Above the head of the fjord and the upper reaches of the branch fjords there exists in some places a corresponding series of lakes, or lake basins, at a height of some hundreds of feet above the fjord level. [Sidenote: Glacial action] In the Hardanger district Sandven, Eidfjord, and Graven lakes are examples. Here, too, are rock basins of the typical fjord form filled with river-water, answering to the erosion caused by the extremities of the shorter glaciers in the valleys. The inland ice during the great glacial period must have extended above even the highest peaks in the interior of the country; but during the lesser or later glacial period, when the extremities of the glaciers only extended to the above-mentioned series of lakes at the heads of the fjords, the higher mountain-tops--at any rate near the coast--and the highest peaks, say, of Jötunheimen, have stood above the great glacier, and have thus escaped the general process of grinding. They appear, however, to have been {46} considerably affected by natural forces in quite a different manner. Their surface is frequently broken up into loose fragments, and we find at their base long lines of rocky débris. We also constantly find them developed into characteristic Alpine forms. Small glaciers in their hollows gradually wear down as they recede into semicircular corries, which cut up the original mountain forms into rugged ridges and peaks. These corries can only be developed above the snow limit, and outside the greater region of inland ice, or in among the rocky peaks above the glaciers' surface, and we see quite Alpine forms lifting their sharp peaks above the undulating snow-field on the extensive mountain plateaux. {47} CHAPTER III THE SOGNE FJORD From the brilliant and heroic Viking age originate those priceless gems of early literature, the "Eddas" and "Sagas," poems and prose of the greatest beauty. The "Eddas" chronicle the exploits of pagan gods and legendary heroes, in no way historical; they are purely mythological. They convey to us in the form of poetry an idea of the pagan mythology of the North in pre-Christian times. They were written at a period following on the first settlement of Iceland, which was accomplished by pagan Celts and Norwegians in the days of Harald Haarfagre, about A.D. 874, and they were continued long after the introduction there of {48} Christianity by King Olav Trygvesson, A.D. 1000. Snorre Sturlason, the Skald, about A.D. 1220 composed what is known as the "Younger Edda," being inspired by the oldest poetry in the Celtic and Icelandic languages. The "Sagas" had their beginning in oral tradition. They celebrated the deeds and exploits of heroic men of the early Viking age. These stories were greatly embellished by the "Saga"-makers, who related them in the halls of petty kings and chieftains at great feasts, and we may be sure they delighted the hearers, who took part in imagination in the lively doings of their brave ancestors. The learned Ari Frodi was first to commit these "Sagas" to writing in the year 1130. From these early writings we gather some information regarding the heathen gods of mythology. [Sidenote: Heathen mythology] We learn that Odin was all-father and god of war. Thor, the son of Odin the Thunderer, was ruler of the air and a {49} deadly foe to "jotuns" (giants) and wizards. Niord was controller of winds and protector of sailors, and Freya was the goddess of peace. Balder the Beautiful was the sun-god. "Trolds" are spirits of the mountains, forests, and lakes, and "valkyries" are the beautiful maidens of Odin. Asgaard was the home of the "æsir" (gods), Valhalla the hall of the departed heroes in Asgaard. Neiffelheim was the frozen underworld, and Muspelheim the place of heat and fire, while Loki was the enemy of the gods (Lucifer). Images of these gods were placed in the pagan temple, which was called "Hov," or "Hove." This edifice was built of stone or wood. It consisted of a nave and chancel. In the centre of the nave stood a large flat fireplace of stone, on which the flesh of the sacrifice was cooked. The smoke from the burning found its way through a square hole in the roof. Rude benches ran along the sides of the walls, and in the midst of {50} these was placed, in a conspicuous position, the high seat, with its great carved pillars ("stolper"), and it was on this seat that the heathen chief sat who officiated at the sacrificial rites. In the centre of the chancel stood the altar. This was placed on a slight elevation, above the hard earthen floor of the temple. Ranged at the back of the altar were the wooden images of the pagan gods, with the principal one--oftest Thor--in the centre. On the altar the victim of the sacrifice--usually an animal, but sometimes a human being--was slain and laid, and the blood was caught in huge bowls of wood or metal, kept expressly for that purpose. The blood was then sprinkled on the altar and walls, on the images of the gods, and on those worshipping. Hung on to the altar was a large golden ring, which the officiating chieftain bore around during the mystic rites and ceremonies. On this ring were sworn all oaths at the "Thing" meeting, or {51} local Parliament, which generally met on the same day, at the conclusion of the ceremonies. [Sidenote: A pagan temple] Hove Kirke, at Vik, in the Sogne Fjord, is a fair example of such a temple. It dates from the eleventh century. It was restored by the Norwegian architect Blix in 1880. Built of stone, it is picturesquely situated on an eminence, at an elevation of some 200 feet. It overlooks the village and bay of Vik, and across the Sogne Fjord the prospect terminates in the glacier of Vetle Fjord, and the high and rugged mountains of Fjærland. Nearer the village, and on a conical mound, stands also the wooden "Stav" church, which here forms the subject of our illustration. Dating from the twelfth century, it is one of the finest examples of its kind in existence in the country. It is now owned by the Society for the Preservation of Norwegian Monuments of Antiquity. Inside this church, among other quaint objects of interest, is a baldaquin, {52} decorated with early medieval paintings and richly carved. The massive church portals show also antique carving in bold design, and some fine old hinges almost cover the heavy door with their decoration. [Sidenote: Superstitious beliefs] Superstition is not yet quite extinct in Sogn. In places such as Vik, where the mountains are high and steep, and the valley is narrow and wild, it is no wonder that the peasants retain to a great degree the superstitious beliefs of their ancestors. Hearing from childhood those weird fairy tales and legends which are the fireside sagas of the peasantry, and spending their whole lives in association with such relics of antiquity as these hoary churches and the scattered burial-mounds ("grav-haug") of dead warriors of pagan times, we can quite understand why it is that vestiges of heathen superstition still exist among the peasantry, and it is discovered in many a quaint form in their daily lives, even in these enlightened days. If we stroll among the farmsteads, we {53} may observe a cross within a circle painted on many a barn-door and outhouse, this being done as a protection against the mischievous tricks of the "trolds" (gnomes). These are believed to live up in the wildest and most lonely places in the mountains. Whenever cattle on the farm fall sick, it is put down to the work of the "trolds." [Illustration: Vik "Stav-kirke" Sogne Fjord] On Christmas Eve the peasants burn a candle all night in the house, and at early morning they go into the cow-house and singe each cow on the tail as a protection against sickness. "Trolds" are thought to be very musical. If there is an exceptionally clever fiddler at a wedding feast, the peasants say that the performer must have been up the mountains and learnt from the "trolds," who are believed to play weird and bewitching music in the loneliest recesses of the mountains. In addition to "trolds," there are "huldr" (fairies or sprites). These are said to be very beautiful, and they {54} sometimes assume human form, the only difference being that they have a cow's tail. These "huldr" have their abode underground, and always close by the farm buildings. It is told that on one occasion a servant-girl by ill-chance threw hot water out from the kitchen door, and immediately the "huldr" called out noisily, screaming that the hot water was scalding them and their children underground. Peasant women to this day will never throw out hot water from their doorways without first saying, "Take care, you who under live." Should children fall sick, the neighbours will say that "the mother cannot expect anything else, for she is in the habit of throwing hot water from the doorway, and the 'huldr' are having revenge." There is a legend relating to a peasant girl who, on her way to a lonely "sæter," or mountain out-farm, heard a voice near her call out, "Tell Turid that Tarald is dead." The girl could see no one near, and {55} on arriving at the "sæter" told the other girls there what she had heard; immediately there came a loud cry out of the ground, "Oh, it is me who is called Turid, and Tarald is my husband." A similar story is found in Plutarch, A.D. 120, in which he relates that a skipper sailing among the Greek islands heard a voice which called out, "Thamus." Thamus was the name of the skipper. Twice the voice called out, and he did not answer; but on hearing it for the third time he did reply. The voice then called out to him loudly, "When you come to Palodes, call out that the great Pan is dead." Thamus thought that he would sail past Palodes, but would not utter a word of what he had heard unless the weather happened to be still. When he arrived there, however, the sea was quiet, and he, remembering the words, called out loudly that the great Pan was dead. Immediately there came from the island a great moaning as of many voices weirdly blended, {56} and this that happened was soon related in Rome. A quaint conception relating to mountain folklore refers to what is known in Sogn as "jolaskrei," a kind of kelpie or old witch wife; these belong to the nightriders of the kingdom of the departed. They are seen on high, ugly mountain ridges at dead of night. When these kelpies are out, they often visit the stables of the lonely farms and take out the horses. These are brought back again, however, just before dawn, but so overworked or overridden and tired that they are quite ready to collapse with fatigue. To guard against this inconvenience, the peasants paint a cross on the stable door, or lay an axe underneath it. In some places even now the farmers place food and drink on the table on Christmas night after all the family have retired, this being for the kelpies; otherwise they might be angry and cause much annoyance. In some districts these curious sprites or goblins are known as "vaasedrift." These {57} ride or drive through the night among the farms; and there are those now living who relate that in their fore-elders' time the bits and reins were found on the horses in the early morning, having been placed there by the kelpies. The spirits of dead Vikings and chiefs who are buried under those huge mounds, "grav-haug," are thought to visit each other, and may be seen flitting to and fro on Christmas eve and for thirteen nights after. "Nykk," "nökken" (nixies) are known throughout the country. These were in former times seen near deep and gloomy mountain tarns and by the brooks. These nixies are able to transform themselves into any kind of animal or reptile, sometimes even assuming strange and grotesque shapes, with heads both front and back; they are the spirits of fresh water. A peculiar legend originates from Underdal in Aurland, in the inner Sogne Fjord. In the olden time there was quite {58} a plague of snakes in that place. A Finn from Nordland happened to be travelling in the neighbourhood. The Finns have always been held in great dread by the Norwegian peasants on account of their pagan practices, witchcraft and sorcery. This pagan Finn offered to rid the place of the reptiles if only there was not among them what he called a "hvidorm" or "visorm" (a wizard serpent), which he described as being in shape like a long hempen rope; it was quite white, and had a red head. The peasants informed him that the "visorm" was never seen there. The Finn then built up a large "baal" (funeral pyre), and fixed up a high post near by, up which he climbed; it was just so high that none of the snakes could reach him. There he sat and beat loudly on his conjuring drum with a drumstick of reindeer horn, and began to conjure. Then out sprang the snake, which was charmed by the noise of the "rune" drum, and forthwith sprang all the other snakes: {59} from fell and brake, from crag and wood, all came racing up to the fire. But now, alas! came also the "visorm" so dreaded by the Finn, who shrieked that it was now all over with him, for in company with "visormen" came always "hvidormen," the dragon snake. Thunder was heard in the crags close by, and a huge piece of rock was hurled into the fjord. As the dragon snake came forth, down sprang the Finn from his high seat; but he was promptly seized by "hvidormen," and both disappeared into the funeral pyre together and were burnt up. It was in this way that Underdal was rid at once of both snakes and Finn, and this happened long ago. "Trolds" (sprites) and "horven" or "kraken" (sea-monsters) were thought to inhabit the sea and lonely parts of the coast and uninhabited islands in the old days, but it is uncertain whether people nowadays quite believe in this nonsense, although they might say "You must have been a-fishing with 'kraken' to-day" if a {60} fisherman happened to come in with an unusual harvest of fish. "Kraken" is also thought to be the legendary sea serpent which is said to have been seen in still summer weather on the deep sea, far out from land, by fishermen, but always at a distance, never near enough for them to be able to take its dimensions. This sea-monster is supposed to be about one hundred fathoms long, and to wriggle over the surface of the water, at times heaving itself even to the height of the masts of a ship. An old saga speaks of a kind of merman, "hav-strambr," a sea-monster, whose head resembles a man's helmeted head, the lower part of the body being in shape like to an icicle, and no one has ever seen where it ends. When this monster appears it is said to be a sign of storm and shipwreck. [Sidenote: Quaint customs] A custom which had its origin in pagan times is the lighting of the Saint John's fires, "Sankt Hans," or "Balder's Baal," on midsummer's eve, a festival of the sun, {61} held on the longest day. It is intimately connected with sun-worship, Balder being the sun-god, and fire a symbolic image of the sun. "Balder's Baal, solbilledet, smukt, brændte paa viede stene."[1] [1] Frithjof's saga. This, translated, reads: "Balder's symbol, sun's beautiful image, burned in pyres on rocks consecrated." We read in the Icelandic sagas that the two great festivals of the year in heathen times were Yuletide and midsummer, and both were celebrated by the lighting of great fires. This primitive custom is better preserved in Norway than in most other countries, but even here it appears to be slowly dying out. Exactly at midnight the fires begin to appear, and soon every promontory, rock, and mountain breast is alight; hundreds of fires shine and glimmer as far as the eye can see, casting their lurid reflections on {62} the waters of the fjord in the brilliant twilight. Around the nearer fires may be discerned shadow-like figures moving round the blaze in the dance, the music of the fiddle being almost drowned by the singing and merriment of the young people who are taking part in the proceedings. A mock wedding forms part of the ceremony, a young peasant girl being dressed as a bride, wearing on her head a crown of birch twigs; the other girls, in national costume, follow in procession, headed by the fiddler, and the boys bring up the rear. The dancing afterwards is kept up all through the long midsummer night. It is a very effective sight to see the well-filled boats stealing over the water from the surrounding farms, the young folks, dressed in holiday costume, coming to take part in the festival. In several places along the fjord it is the custom to build a strong raft of logs; this is piled high with combustible material {63} and floated some distance from shore, where it is anchored. When in full blaze it looks very effective, and lights up the water with ruddy reflection. Numbers of boats may be observed to creep mysteriously around the fire, at a safe distance from it, and the lively notes of the fiddle and of singing float sweetly over the water. Another old custom still survives in this district of Sogn. When it becomes known that two young people are to be engaged to be married, the boys in the district shoot into the air with rifles, and fire small cannon around the house on the evening when the young man goes to ask of the parents their consent to the engagement. They also ring hand-bells and blow a horn; these noises must surely prove rather disconcerting to the newly betrothed. In some cases the prospective bride-groom has many miles of rowing along the fjord before he reaches the home of his lady-love. His visit is usually paid at the end of the week, and he generally spends {64} the night there. As a practical joke, the peasant boys have been known to take his boat, drag it up on shore, and hide it in some secluded place, much to his great discomfort and annoyance when he wishes to return in the morning. At all large weddings, to which may be invited from 150 to 200 guests, festivities are usually kept up for a week or more. Dancing and fiddling go on day and night continuously, the "Hailing" and "Spring" dances being general favourites on these festive occasions. The music to these dances is exceedingly lively, even barbaric in character, and the dances are consequently wild and exciting. The services of the Hardanger fiddler are in great request, and he finds himself engaged throughout the springtime, going with his fiddle from one wedding to another. Each wedding party engage their own fiddler, and he it is who leads the procession from the farm to the church door, and it often occurs that several weddings take {65} place at the same church at the same time. There is great competition among the fiddlers on such an occasion, each one playing to the very extent of his ability. With a jaunty air the fiddlers step forward, and each neighbourhood upholds with pride the honour and reputation of their own fiddler. [Illustration: Ese Fjord] It happened that on one such occasion the church folk were divided in their admiration between two fiddlers of about equal cleverness. One side claimed that a feat had been achieved on the way to the kirk by their fiddler, who, while all along playing his best, did at the same time chaff his comrades who stood on the roadside as he calmly went on with his difficult bridal march, as though it were quite the most easy and natural thing in the world. This same spirit of rivalry also possesses the younger men; each vies with the others in skill and cleverness in the dances, in which their ability to kick the highest is put to the test for the admiration and {66} applause of the onlooking girls. This rivalry would result at times in quite a battle royal of words, and even more seriously, it would end in real danger to life and limb. {67} CHAPTER IV THE SOGNE FJORD (_continued_) Sailing down the Sogne Fjord from the sea coast, the scenery gradually assumes wilder and grander proportions as we advance. At Vadeim it is just beginning to be interesting and attractive, and when we come to Balholm we enter into the finest part of the fjord. Here are prosperous farms, smiling orchards, and waving cornfields, and as an effective contrast, glacier and snow-field crown the high and steep mountains around. Tradition points to this place as the scene of the Swedish poet Tegner's "Frithjof Saga." Among other burial mounds ("grav-haug") {68} of chiefs from the Viking age at Balholm is pointed out that of King Belè, whose daughter was Ingeborg, whilst at Framnæs, across the fjord, dwelt Frithjof the Viking. These names all occur in the "Frithjof Saga." At Balholm stands an English church, the only one to be found among the fjords. Built for the use of English visitors in summer-time, its design is similar to that of the ancient wooden "stav-kirk," at Vik in Sogn. It was erected recently, mainly through the efforts of the brothers Kvikne, who during their lifetime have been the means of transforming Balholm from a mere wilderness to a place of great beauty, and one of the most important places of resort among the fjords. In an earlier part of this book reference was made to the life at a "sæter," or mountain out-farm, a description of which may here be found of interest. Many of the peasants who live alongside the fjords are also owners of large portions of the mountain plateaux in their {69} neighbourhood, and on these excellent grazing is found in the summer months. When the heavy work of the spring has been finished on the home farm, and the snow has left these highlands, and when the vegetation has had time to establish itself anew, the whole farm household gets ready to remove the domestic animals to the "sæter." It is a picturesque sight, this cavalcade, the animals all confusion, cattle lowing and sheep bleating, their bells tinkling merrily as they skip about, the sturdy little ponies, heavily laden with necessary goods and chattels, bringing up the rear. All seem full of glee that they can now have a few months of ideal grazing on those high lands after their imprisonment indoors all the long winter. Climbing and struggling onwards up the steep valley, then through almost trackless regions of rocks and stunted trees, they at length arrive at their destination, often after some fifteen or twenty miles of travelling. [Sidenote: Life at a "sæter"] At the "sæter" they rest for the {70} summer months amid rich vegetation by the margin of a lake or mountain tarn, surrounded by high mountain-tops. Here they graze on the bosky slopes to the music of babbling brooks. The "sæter" houses are mostly small and low, of one story only; they are usually of a very primitive type, being, in fact, the earliest style of house building now in existence in the country, this ancient form surviving here long after it had been abandoned in the home farms. Attached to the dwelling-house, or forming part of it, is a dairy where butter and cheeses are made. A white cheese, "melkost," is made from fresh cow's milk; a very strongly-flavoured old cheese comes from buttermilk--it is called "gammelost"; and from goat's milk they make "gjedost" or "brimost." The women and girls only live up at the "sæter," and in addition to the cheese and butter making, they must attend to their domestic animals during the four longest summer months. {71} The men come up from the home farm at the week-ends with necessary provisions, and take back with them the produce of the "sæter." Bracing is the rarified air of these high lands; and although the sun's heat is great, it is tempered by the breezes which come from snow-field or glacier on the higher mountains around. [Illustration: A sæter, Vetle Fjord] When the wild berries are ripe, the younger girls climb the heathery slopes and fill their wooden pails with the cranberries, bilberries, and cloudberries ("multebær"), which abound in great profusion. Fagesi, Levros, Pentekol, Buskin: to these and other quaintly sounding names the cattle answer, the goats also being known individually by such names as Skjomos, Blegeros, Kvideben, etc. The cattle have their chosen leader, who wears a bell attached to a leathern collar around the neck; they are led by its sound, and keep within hearing distance as they graze. The sheep and goats also wear bells, {72} nearly all of them, but the sound of these is quite distinct from the cattle-bells. At a certain time every evening the cows may be seen slowly making their way of their own accord to the "sæter" house, where they quietly wait to be milked. When it is necessary to call them from a distance, they answer to the sound of the "lur," a kind of alpine horn. This is made of birch, and is about four feet long. When blown lustily it gives out notes clear and sweet, in sound not unlike those of a cornet. On the "lur" the "sæter" girls are expert performers, and during the long summer evenings they love to make the mountain crags echo with delicious airs, which they produce from this primitive instrument. The cattle know instinctively when there are bears in the neighbourhood. At such times they hurry to the "sæter" huts, around which they crowd, and from their melancholy lowing the girls are led {73} to know that there is danger near. A bonfire is quickly made and kept alight throughout the night; the "lur" is also brought into requisition. Thus, by the aid of fire and music, the danger is averted, for Bruin, being fond of neither, gets himself away as quickly as he can. Not very many years ago bears were fairly numerous in the high and wild mountain region which lies between the Sogne and Nord Fjords, but, owing in a great measure to the more general use of better guns, they have steadily decreased. The average annual number of bears shot in Norway between the years 1840 and 1860 was 230. This number has gradually dwindled down to a yearly average of 40 for the past decade. Fjaarland in Sogn is a noted stronghold of these animals, and in this neighbourhood many bears have been shot in recent years. One old peasant, who lived in Suphelledal here, informed me that he had during his lifetime shot over 30 bears. As witness to his tale, his face and scalp showed even {74} then old, but quite distinct, traces of the rough handling he had received in the pursuit of his favourite sport. On one occasion, after having lain in wait for several days up the mountains, he was suddenly confronted by a she-bear with a young cub. So quickly did she appear from behind a rock, and so close to him was she, that he had not time to fire before she struck him on the head with her powerful forefoot, which action tore his scalp over his face and laid him prostrate on the ground. For a moment he felt the hot breath of the bear around his ears as he lay with face buried in the turf. No doubt thinking that he was killed outright, she proceeded, at a few yards' distance, to scrape with her powerful claws among the loose earth and débris in order to make a hole in which to hide her prey. She stopped from time to time to look up from her work to see if her victim showed any signs of life, and being at length convinced that all was well, she went on with her task with greater energy, and {75} from her strong claws the loose earth and stones flew in all directions. [Sidenote: Bear-hunting] The peasant's opportunity, for which he had breathlessly waited, presented itself. Jumping up, he seized his rifle, and with cool and steady aim he was fortunate in bringing down by that one fatal shot a fine animal in the pink of condition. He succeeded at the same time in securing her young cub, and thought himself to be in great good luck that day. Two fine glaciers, Bojumsbræ and Suphellebræ, are in this district of Fjærland, and both may be visited in a few hours from Mundal. These glaciers are arms of the great Jostedalsbræ, the most extensive ice-field in Europe. The Bojumsbræ is the most important of the two in regard to size, and the surroundings are majestically grand. King Oscar II. visited this glacier in 1879. At the Suphellebræ may be seen and heard at any time huge masses of ice falling over the precipice which cuts off the lower from the upper glacier. {76} At the foot of the lower glacier are several very beautiful ice-caverns, deep blue in colour, from which flows the pale-green ice-water on its way to the head of the fjord which is not far distant. [Sidenote: Glaciers of Fjærland] The valleys in this district are wild and grand. There is, however, rich grazing land, and the peasants are all well-to-do; they retain in primitive fashion the habits and customs of their ancestors, and are very hospitable and kind-hearted. The people of Sogn--"Sogninger," as they are called--are, on the whole, a powerful and gifted race. Those of Outer (Ytre) Sogn are, as a rule, placid and even-tempered, and the natives of Inner (Indre) Sogn are quick, lively, and excitable. Their dialect ("Sognemaal") is clear, rich, and full-sounding. It is one of the dialects most resembling the old Norwegian language. Sogn was at one time the seat of mighty families, and many a warlike company of Vikings has sailed from this fjord. The ancient kings of Norway occasionally {77} visited Sogn, but not always in a friendly way. An old historical saga tells of a visit which King Sverre paid the "Sogninger" to take vengeance upon them for the killing of his bailiff at a place named Kaupanger, near Sogndal. Kaupanger, by Sverre's orders, was burned, and so were the houses of Sogndal. The inhabitants of these places fled to the mountains and woods, where they hid themselves and thus escaped. [Illustration: Fjærland, Sogne Fjord] Immediately after this event King Sverre
arrived squadron—he defeats the Athenian squadron under Charmînus.—Peloponnesian fleet at Knidus—double dealing of Tissaphernês—breach between him and Lichas.—Peloponnesian fleet masters Rhodes, and establishes itself in that island.—Long inaction of the fleet at Rhodes—paralyzing intrigues of Tissaphernês—corruption of the Lacedæmonian officers. 353-402 HISTORY OF GREECE. PART II. CONTINUATION OF HISTORICAL GREECE. CHAPTER LV. FROM THE PEACE OF NIKIAS TO THE OLYMPIC FESTIVAL OF OLYMPIAD NINETY. My last chapter and last volume terminated with the peace called the Peace of Nikias, concluded in March 421 B.C., between Athens and the Spartan confederacy, for fifty years. This peace—negotiated during the autumn and winter succeeding the defeat of the Athenians at Amphipolis, wherein both Kleon and Brasidas were slain—resulted partly from the extraordinary anxiety of the Spartans to recover their captives who had been taken at Sphakteria, partly from the discouragement of the Athenians, leading them to listen to the peace-party who acted with Nikias. The general principle adopted for the peace was, the restitution by both parties of what had been acquired by war, yet excluding such places as had been surrendered by capitulation: according to which reserve the Athenians, while prevented from recovering Platæa, continued to hold Nisæa, the harbor of Megara. The Lacedæmonians engaged to restore Amphipolis to Athens, and to relinquish their connection with the revolted allies of Athens in Thrace; that is, Argilus, Stageirus, Akanthus, Skôlus, Olynthus, and Spartôlus. These six cities, however, were not to be enrolled as allies of Athens unless they chose voluntarily to become so, but only to pay regularly to Athens the tribute originally assessed by Aristeidês, as a sort of recompense for the protection of the Ægean sea against private war or piracy. Any inhabitant of Amphipolis or the other cities, who chose to leave them, was at liberty to do so, and to carry away his property. Farther, the Lacedæmonians covenanted to restore Panaktum to Athens, together with all the Athenian prisoners in their possession. As to Skiônê, Torônê, and Sermylus, the Athenians were declared free to take their own measures. On their part, they engaged to release all captives in their hands, either of Sparta or her allies; to restore Pylus, Kythêra, Methônê, Pteleon, and Atalantê; and to liberate all the Peloponnesian or Brasidean soldiers now under blockade in Skiônê. Provision was also made, by special articles, that all Greeks should have free access to the sacred Pan-Hellenic festivals, either by land or sea; and that the autonomy of the Delphian temple should be guaranteed. The contracting parties swore to abstain in future from all injury to each other, and to settle by amicable decision any dispute which might arise.[1] [1] Thucyd. v, 17-29. Lastly, it was provided that if any matter should afterwards occur as having been forgotten, the Athenians and Lacedæmonians might by mutual consent amend the treaty as they thought fit. So prepared, the oaths were interchanged between seventeen principal Athenians and as many principal Lacedæmonians. Earnestly bent as Sparta herself was upon the peace, and ratified as it had been by the vote of a majority among her confederates, still, there was a powerful minority who not only refused their assent but strenuously protested against its conditions. The Corinthians were discontented because they did not receive back Sollium and Anaktorium; the Megarians, because they did not regain Nisæa; the Bœotians, because Panaktum was to be restored to Athens: the Eleians also on some other ground which we do not distinctly know. All of them, moreover, took common offence at the article which provided that Athens and Sparta might, by mutual consent, and without consulting the allies, amend the treaty in any way that they thought proper.[2] Though the peace was sworn, therefore, the most powerful members of the Spartan confederacy remained all recusant. [2] Thucyd. v, 18. So strong was the interest of the Spartans themselves, however, that having obtained the favorable vote of the majority, they resolved to carry the peace through, even at the risk of breaking up the confederacy. Besides the earnest desire of recovering their captives from the Athenians, they were farther alarmed by the fact that their truce for thirty years concluded with Argos was just now expiring. They had indeed made application to Argos for renewing it, through Lichas the Spartan proxenus of that city. But the Argeians had refused, except upon the inadmissible condition that the border territory of Kynuria should be ceded to them: there was reason to fear therefore that this new and powerful force might be thrown into the scale of Athens, if war were allowed to continue.[3] [3] Thucyd. v, 14, 22, 76. Accordingly, no sooner had the peace been sworn than the Spartans proceeded to execute its provisions. Lots being drawn to determine whether Sparta or Athens should be the first to make the cessions required, the Athenians drew the favorable lot: an advantage so very great, under the circumstances, that Theophrastus affirmed Nikias to have gained the point by bribery. There is no ground for believing such alleged bribery; the rather, as we shall presently find Nikias gratuitously throwing away most of the benefit which the lucky lot conferred.[4] [4] Plutarch, Nikias, c. 10. The Spartans began their compliance by forthwith releasing all the Athenian prisoners in their hands, and despatching Ischagoras with two other envoys to Amphipolis and the Thracian towns. These envoys were directed to proclaim the peace as well as to enforce its observance upon the Thracian towns, and especially to command Klearidas, the Spartan commander in Amphipolis, that he should surrender the town to the Athenians. But on arriving in Thrace, these envoys met with nothing but unanimous opposition: and so energetic were the remonstrances of the Chalkidians, both in Amphipolis and out of it, that even Klearidas refused obedience to his own government, pretending that he was not strong enough to surrender the place against the resistance of the Chalkidians. Thus completely baffled, the envoys returned to Sparta, whither Klearidas thought it prudent to accompany them, partly to explain his own conduct, partly in hopes of being able to procure some modification of the terms. But he found this impossible, and he was sent back to Amphipolis with peremptory orders to surrender the place to the Athenians, if it could possibly be done; if that should prove beyond his force, then to come away, and bring home every Peloponnesian soldier in the garrison. Perhaps the surrender was really impracticable to a force no greater than that which Klearidas commanded, since the reluctance of the population was doubtless obstinate. At any rate, he represented it to be impracticable: the troops accordingly came home, but the Athenians still remained excluded from Amphipolis, and all the stipulations of the peace respecting the Thracian towns remained unperformed. Nor was this all. The envoys from the recusant minority (Corinthians and others), after having gone home for instructions, had now come back to Sparta with increased repugnance and protest against the injustice of the peace, so that all the efforts of the Spartans to bring them to compliance were fruitless.[5] [5] Thucyd. v, 21, 22. The latter were now in serious embarrassment. Not having executed their portion of the treaty, they could not demand that Athens should execute hers: and they were threatened with the double misfortune of forfeiting the confidence of their allies without acquiring any one of the advantages of the treaty. In this dilemma they determined to enter into closer relations, and separate relations, with Athens, at all hazard of offending their allies. Of the enmity of Argos, if unaided by Athens, they had little apprehension; while the moment was now favorable for alliance with Athens, from the decided pacific tendencies reigning on both sides, as well as from the known philo-Laconian sentiment of the leaders Nikias and Lachês. The Athenian envoys had remained at Sparta ever since the swearing of the peace, awaiting the fulfilment of the conditions; Nikias or Lachês, one or both, being very probably among them. When they saw that Sparta was unable to fulfil her bond, so that the treaty seemed likely to be cancelled, they would doubtless encourage, and perhaps may even have suggested, the idea of a separate alliance between Sparta and Athens, as the only expedient for covering the deficiency; promising that under that alliance the Spartan captives should be restored. Accordingly, a treaty was concluded between the two, for fifty years; not merely of peace, but of defensive alliance. Each party pledged itself to assist in repelling any invaders of the territory of the other, to treat them as enemies, and not to conclude peace with them without the consent of the other. This was the single provision of the alliance, with one addition, however, of no mean importance, for the security of Lacedæmon. The Athenians engaged to lend their best and most energetic aid in putting down any rising of the Helots which might occur in Laconia. Such a provision indicates powerfully the uneasiness felt by the Lacedæmonians respecting their serf-population: but at the present moment it was of peculiar value to them, since it bound the Athenians to restrain, if not to withdraw, the Messenian garrison of Pylos, planted there by themselves for the express purpose of provoking the Helots to revolt. An alliance with stipulations so few and simple took no long time to discuss. It was concluded very speedily after the return of the envoys from Amphipolis, probably not more than a month or two after the former peace. It was sworn to by the same individuals on both sides; with similar declaration that the oath should be annually renewed, and also with similar proviso that Sparta and Athens might by mutual consent either enlarge or contract the terms, without violating the oath.[6] Moreover, the treaty was directed to be inscribed on two columns: one to be set up in the temple of Apollo at Amyklæ, the other in the temple of Athênê, in the acropolis of Athens. [6] Thucyd. v, 23. The treaty of alliance seems to have been drawn up at Sparta, and approved or concerted with the Athenian envoys; then sent to Athens, and there adopted by the people; then sworn to on both sides. The interval between this second treaty and the first (οὐ πολλῷ ὕστερον, v, 24), may have been more than a month; for it comprised the visit of the Lacedæmonian envoys to Amphipolis and the other towns of Thrace, the manifestation of resistance in those towns, and the return of Klearidas to Sparta to give an account of his conduct. The most important result of this new alliance was something not specified in its provisions, but understood, we may be well assured, between the Spartan ephors and Nikias at the time when it was concluded. All the Spartan captives at Athens were forthwith restored.[7] [7] Thucyd. v, 24. Nothing can demonstrate more powerfully the pacific and acquiescent feeling now reigning at Athens, as well as the strong philo-Laconian inclinations of her leading men (at this moment Alkibiadês was competing with Nikias for the favor of Sparta, as will be stated presently), than the terms of this alliance, which bound Athens to assist in keeping down the Helots, and the still more important after-proceeding, of restoring the Spartan captives. Athens thus parted irrevocably with her best card, and promised to renounce her second best, without obtaining the smallest equivalent beyond what was contained in the oath of Sparta to become her ally. For the last three years and a half, ever since the capture of Sphakteria, the possession of these captives had placed her in a position of decided advantage in regard to her chief enemy; advantage, however, which had to a certain extent been countervailed by subsequent losses. This state of things was fairly enough represented by the treaty of peace deliberately discussed during the winter, and sworn to at the commencement of spring, whereby a string of concessions, reciprocal and balancing, had been imposed on both parties. Moreover, Athens had been lucky enough in drawing lots to find herself enabled to wait for the actual fulfilment of such concessions by the Spartans, before she consummated her own. Now the Spartans had not as yet realized any one of their promised concessions: nay, more; in trying to do so, they had displayed such a want either of power or of will, as made it plain, that nothing short of the most stringent necessity would convert their promises into realities. Yet, under these marked indications, Nikias persuades his countrymen to conclude a second treaty which practically annuls the first, and which insures to the Spartans gratuitously all the main benefits of the first, with little or none of the correlative sacrifices. The alliance of Sparta could hardly be said to count as a consideration: for that alliance was at this moment, under the uncertain relations with Argos, not less valuable to Sparta herself than to Athens. There can be little doubt that, if the game of Athens had now been played with prudence, she might have recovered Amphipolis in exchange for the captives: for the inability of Klearidas to make over the place, even if we grant it to have been a real fact and not merely simulated, might have been removed by decisive coöperation on the part of Sparta with an Athenian armament sent to occupy the place. In fact, that which Athens was now induced to grant was precisely the original proposition transmitted to her by the Lacedæmonians four years before, when the hoplites were first inclosed in Sphakteria, but before the actual capture. They then tendered no equivalent, but merely said, through their envoys, “Give us the men in the island, and accept in exchange peace, together with our alliance.”[8] At that moment there were some plausible reasons in favor of granting the proposition: but even then, the case of Kleon against it was also plausible and powerful, when he contended that Athens was entitled to make a better bargain. But _now_, there were no reasons in its favor, and a strong concurrence of reasons against it. Alliance with the Spartans was of no great value to Athens: peace was of material importance to her; but peace had been already sworn to on both sides, after deliberate discussion, and required now only to be carried into execution. That equal reciprocity of concession, which presented the best chance of permanent result, had been agreed on; and fortune had procured for her the privilege of receiving the purchase-money before she handed over the goods. Why renounce so advantageous a position, accepting in exchange a hollow and barren alliance, under the obligation of handing over her most precious merchandise upon credit, and upon credit as delusive in promise as it afterwards proved unproductive in reality? The alliance, in fact, prevented the peace from being fulfilled: it became, as Thucydidês himself[9] admits, no peace, but a simple suspension of direct hostilities. [8] Thucyd. iv, 19. Λακεδαιμόνιοι δὲ ὑμᾶς προκαλοῦνται ἐς σπονδὰς καὶ διάλυσιν πολέμου, διδόντες μὲν εἰρήνην καὶ ξυμμαχίαν καὶ ἄλλην φιλίαν πολλὴν καὶ οἰκειότητα ἐς ἀλλήλους ὑπάρχειν, ἀνταιτοῦντες δὲ τοὺς ἐκ τῆς νήσου ἄνδρας. [9] Thucyd. v, 26. οὐκ εἰκὸς ὂν εἰρήνην αὐτὴν κριθῆναι, etc. Thucydidês states on more than one occasion, and it was the sentiment of Nikias himself, that at the moment of concluding the peace which bears his name, the position of Sparta was one of disadvantage and dishonor in reference to Athens;[10] alluding chiefly to the captives in the hands of the latter; for as to other matters, the defeats of Delium and Amphipolis, with the serious losses in Thrace, would more than countervail the acquisitions of Nisæa, Pylus, Kythêra, and Methônê. Yet so inconsiderate and short-sighted were the philo-Laconian leanings of Nikias and the men who now commanded confidence at Athens, that they threw away this advantage, suffered Athens to be cheated of all those hopes which they had themselves held out as the inducement for peace, and nevertheless yielded gratuitously to Sparta all the main points which she desired. Most certainly there was never any public recommendation of Kleon, as far as our information goes, so ruinously impolitic as this alliance with Sparta and surrender of the captives, wherein both Nikias and Alkibiadês concurred. Probably the Spartan ephors amused Nikias, and he amused the Athenian assembly, with fallacious assurances of certain obedience in Thrace, under alleged peremptory orders given to Klearidas. And now that the vehement leather-dresser, with his criminative eloquence, had passed away, replaced only by an inferior successor, the lamp-maker[11] Hyperbolus, and leaving the Athenian public under the undisputed guidance of citizens eminent for birth and station, descended from gods and heroes, there remained no one to expose effectively the futility of such assurances, or to enforce the lesson of simple and obvious prudence: “Wait, as you are entitled to wait, until the Spartans have performed the onerous part of their bargain, before you perform the onerous part of yours. Or, if you choose to relax in regard to some of the concessions which they have sworn to make, at any rate stick to the capital point of all, and lay before them the peremptory alternative—Amphipolis in exchange for the captives.” [10] Thucyd. v, 28. κατὰ γὰρ τὸν χρόνον τοῦτον ἥ τε Λακεδαίμων μάλιστα δὴ κακῶς ἤκουσε καὶ ὑπερώφθη διὰ τὰς ξυμφορὰς.—(Νικίας) λέγων ἐν μὲν τῷ σφετέρῳ καλῷ (Athenian) ἐν δὲ τῷ ἐκείνων ἀπρεπεῖ (Lacedæmonian) τὸν πόλεμον ἀναβάλλεσθαι, etc. (v, 46)—Οἷς πρῶτον μὲν (to the Lacedæmonians) διὰ ξυμφορῶν ἡ ξύμβασις, etc. [11] Aristophan. Pac. 665-887. The Athenians were not long in finding out how completely they had forfeited the advantage of their position, and their chief means of enforcement, by giving up the captives; which imparted a freedom of action to Sparta such as she had never enjoyed since the first blockade of Sphakteria. Yet it seems that under the present ephors Sparta was not guilty of any deliberate or positive act which could be called a breach of faith. She gave orders to Klearidas to surrender Amphipolis if he could; if not, to evacuate it, and bring the Peloponnesian troops home. Of course, the place was not surrendered to the Athenians, but evacuated; and she then considered that she had discharged her duty to Athens, as far as Amphipolis was concerned, though she had sworn to restore it, and her oath remained unperformed.[12] The other Thracian towns were equally deaf to her persuasions, and equally obstinate in their hostility to Athens. So also were the Bœotians, Corinthians, Megarians, and Eleians: but the Bœotians, while refusing to become parties to the truce along with Sparta, concluded for themselves a separate convention or armistice with Athens, terminable at ten days’ notice on either side.[13] [12] Thucyd. v, 21-35. [13] Thucyd. v, 32. In this state of things, though ostensible relations of peace and free reciprocity of intercourse between Athens and Peloponnesus were established, the discontent of the Athenians, and the remonstrances of their envoys at Sparta, soon became serious. The Lacedæmonians had sworn for themselves and their allies, yet the most powerful among these allies, and those whose enmity was most important to Athens, continued still recusant. Neither Panaktum, nor the Athenian prisoners in Bœotia, were yet restored to Athens; nor had the Thracian cities yet submitted to the peace. In reply to the remonstrances of the Athenian envoys, the Lacedæmonians affirmed that they had already surrendered all the Athenian prisoners in their own hands, and had withdrawn their troops from Thrace, which was, they said, all the intervention in their power, since they were not masters of Amphipolis, nor capable of constraining the Thracian cities against their will. As to the Bœotians and Corinthians, the Lacedæmonians went so far as to profess readiness to take arms along with Athens,[14] for the purpose of constraining them to accept the peace, and even spoke about naming a day, after which these recusant states should be proclaimed as joint enemies, both by Sparta and Athens. But their propositions were always confined to vague words, nor would they consent to bind themselves by any written or peremptory instrument. Nevertheless, so great was their confidence either in the sufficiency of these assurances, or in the facility of Nikias, that they ventured to require from Athens the surrender of Pylus, or at least the withdrawal of the Messenian garrison with the Helot deserters from that place, leaving in it none but native Athenian soldiers, until farther progress should be made in the peace. But the feeling of the Athenians was now seriously altered, and they received this demand with marked coldness. None of the stipulations of the treaty in their favor had yet been performed, none even seemed in course of being performed: so that they now began to suspect Sparta of dishonesty and deceit, and deeply regretted their inconsiderate surrender of the captives.[15] Their remonstrances at Sparta, often repeated during the course of the summer, produced no positive effect: nevertheless, they suffered themselves to be persuaded to remove the Messenians and Helots from Pylus to Kephallenia, replacing them by an Athenian garrison.[16] [14] Thucyd. v, 35. λέγοντες ἀεὶ ὡς μετ’ Ἀθηναίων τούτους, ἢν μὴ θέλωσι, κοινῇ ἀναγκάσουσι· ~χρόνους δὲ προὔθεντο ἄνευ ξυγγραφῆς~, ἐν οἷς χρῆν τοὺς μὴ ἐσιόντας ἀμφοτέροις πολεμίους εἶναι. [15] Thucyd. v, 35. τούτων οὖν ὁρῶντες οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι οὐδὲν ἔργῳ γιγνόμενον, ὑπετόπευον τοὺς Λακεδαιμονίους μηδὲν δίκαιον διανοεῖσθαι, ὥστε οὔτε Πύλον ἀπαιτούντων αὐτῶν ἀπεδίδοσαν, ἀλλὰ ~καὶ τοὺς ἐκ τῆς νήσου ἄνδρας μετεμέλοντο ἀποδεδωκότες~, etc. [16] Thucyd. v, 35. πολλάκις δὲ καὶ πολλῶν λόγων γενομένων ἐν τῷ θέρει τούτῳ, etc. The Athenians had doubtless good reason to complain of Sparta. But the persons of whom they had still better reason to complain, were Nikias and their own philo-Laconian leaders; who had first accepted from Sparta promises doubtful as to execution, and next—though favored by the lot in regard to priority of cession, and thus acquiring proof that Sparta either would not or could not perform her promises—renounced all these advantages, and procured for Sparta almost gratuitously the only boon for which she seriously cared. The many critics on Grecian history, who think no term too harsh for the demagogue Kleon, ought in fairness to contrast his political counsel with that of his rivals, and see which of the two betokens greater forethought in the management of the foreign relations of Athens. Amphipolis had been once lost by the improvident watch of Thucydidês and Euklês: it was now again lost by the improvident concessions of Nikias. So much was the Peloponnesian alliance unhinged by the number of states which had refused the peace, and so greatly was the ascendency of Sparta for the time impaired, that new combinations were now springing up in the peninsula. It has already been mentioned that the truce between Argos and Sparta was just now expiring: Argos therefore was free, with her old pretensions to the headship of Peloponnesus, backed by an undiminished fulness of wealth, power, and population. Having taken no direct part in the late exhausting war, she had even earned money by lending occasional aid on both sides;[17] while her military force was just now farther strengthened by a step of very considerable importance. She had recently set apart a body of a thousand select hoplites, composed of young men of wealth and station, to receive constant military training at the public expense, and to be enrolled as a separate regiment by themselves, apart from the other citizens.[18] To a democratical government like Argos, such an institution was internally dangerous, and pregnant with mischief, which will be hereafter described. But at the present moment, the democratical leaders of Argos seem to have thought only of the foreign relations of their city, now that her truce with Sparta was expiring, and that the disorganized state of the Spartan confederacy opened new chances to her ambition of regaining something like headship in Peloponnesus. [17] Thucyd. v, 28. Aristophan. Pac. 467, about the Argeians, δίχοθεν μισθοφοροῦντες ἄλφιτα. He characterizes the Argeians as anxious for this reason to prolong the war between Athens and Sparta. This passage, as well as the whole tenor of the play, affords ground for affirming that the Pax was represented during the winter immediately preceding the Peace of Nikias, about four or five months after the battle of Amphipolis and the death of Kleon and Brasidas; not two years later, as Mr. Clinton would place it, on the authority of a date in the play itself, upon which he lays too great stress. [18] Thucyd. v, 67. Ἀργείων οἱ Χίλιοι λογάδες, οἷς ἡ πόλις ~ἐκ πολλοῦ~ ἄσκησιν τῶν ἐς τὸν πόλεμον δημοσίᾳ παρεῖχε. Diodorus (xii, 75) represents the first formation of this Thousand-regiment at Argos as having taken place just about this time, and I think he is here worthy of credit; so that I do not regard the expression of Thucydidês ἐκ πολλοῦ as indicating a time more than two years prior to the battle of Mantineia. For Grecian military training, two years of constant practice would be a _long_ time. It is not to be imagined that the Argeian democracy would have incurred the expense and danger of keeping up this select regiment during all the period of their long peace, just now coming to an end. The discontent of the recusant Peloponnesian allies was now inducing them to turn their attention towards Argos as a new chief. They had mistrusted Sparta, even before the peace, well knowing that she had separate interests from the confederacy, arising from desire to get back her captives: in the terms of peace, it seemed as if Sparta and Athens alone were regarded, the interests of the remaining allies, especially those in Thrace, being put out of sight. Moreover, that article in the treaty of peace whereby it was provided that Athens and Sparta might by mutual consent add or strike out any article that they chose, without consulting the allies, excited general alarm, as if Sparta were meditating some treason in conjunction with Athens against the confederacy.[19] And the alarm, once roused, was still farther aggravated by the separate treaty of alliance between Sparta and Athens, which followed so closely afterwards, as well as by the restoration of the Spartan captives. [19] Thucyd. v, 29. μὴ μετὰ Ἀθηναίων σφᾶς βούλωνται Λακεδαιμόνιοι δουλώσασθαι: compare Diodorus, xii, 75. Such general displeasure among the Peloponnesian states at the unexpected combination of Athenians and Lacedæmonians, strengthened in the case of each particular state by private interests of its own, first manifested itself openly through the Corinthians. On retiring from the conferences at Sparta,—where the recent alliance between the Athenians and Spartans had just been made known, and where the latter had vainly endeavored to prevail upon their allies to accept the peace,—the Corinthians went straight to Argos to communicate what had passed, and to solicit interference. They suggested to the leading men in that city, that it was now the duty of Argos to step forward as saviour of Peloponnesus, which the Lacedæmonians were openly betraying to the common enemy, and to invite for that purpose, into alliance for reciprocal defence, every autonomous Hellenic state which would bind itself to give and receive amicable satisfaction in all points of difference. They affirmed that many cities, from hatred of Sparta, would gladly comply with such invitation; especially if a board of commissioners in small number were named, with full powers to admit all suitable applicants; so that, in case of rejection, there might at least be no exposure before the public assembly in the Argeian democracy. This suggestion—privately made by the Corinthians, who returned home immediately afterwards—was eagerly adopted both by leaders and people at Argos, as promising to realize their long-cherished pretensions to headship. Twelve commissioners were accordingly appointed, with power to admit any new allies whom they might think eligible, except Athens and Sparta. With either of those two cities, no treaty was allowed without the formal sanction of the public assembly.[20] [20] Thucyd. v, 28. Meanwhile, the Corinthians, though they had been the first to set the Argeians in motion, nevertheless thought it right, before enrolling themselves publicly in the new alliance, to invite a congress of Peloponnesian malcontents to Corinth. It was the Mantineians who made the first application to Argos under the notice just issued. And here we are admitted to a partial view of the relations among the secondary and interior states of Peloponnesus. Mantineia and Tegea, being conterminous as well as the two most considerable states in Arcadia, were in perpetual rivalry, which had shown itself only a year and a half before in a bloody but indecisive battle.[21] Tegea, situated on the frontiers of Laconia, and oligarchically governed, was tenaciously attached to Sparta: while for that very reason, as well as from the democratical character of her government, Mantineia was less so, though she was still enrolled in and acted as a member of the Peloponnesian confederacy. She had recently conquered for herself[22] a little empire in her own neighborhood, composed of village districts in Arcadia, reckoned as her subject allies, and comrades in her ranks at the last battle with Tegea. This conquest had been made even during the continuance of the war with Athens; a period when the lesser states of Peloponnesus generally, and even subject-states as against their own imperial states, were under the guarantee of the confederacy, to which they were required to render their unpaid service against the common enemy; so that she was apprehensive of Lacedæmonian interference at the request and for the emancipation of these subjects, who lay, moreover, near to the borders of Laconia. Such interference would probably have been invoked earlier; only that Sparta had been under pressing embarrassments—and farther, had assembled no general muster of the confederacy against Athens—ever since the disaster in Sphakteria. But now she had her hands free, together with a good pretext as well as motive for interference. [21] Thucyd. iv, 134. [22] Thucyd. v, 29. τοῖς γὰρ Μαντινεῦσι μέρος τι τῆς Ἀρκαδίας κατέστραπτο ὑπήκοον, ἔτι τοῦ πρὸς Ἀθηναίους πολέμου ὄντος, καὶ ἐνόμιζον οὐ περιόψεσθαι σφᾶς τοὺς Λακεδαιμονίους ἄρχειν, ἐπειδὴ καὶ σχολὴν ἦγον. As to the way in which the agreement of the members of the confederacy modified the relations between subordinate and imperial states, see farther on, pages 25 and 26, in the case of Elis and Lepreum. To maintain the autonomy of all the little states, and prevent any of them from being med
they were as veracious as their prejudices would allow them to be. Unconsciously, too, they render another service of infinite importance. Being in close communication with the disaffected English peers and clergy, and engaged with them secretly in promoting rebellion, the ministers of Charles V. reveal with extraordinary clearness the dangers with which the Government had to deal. They make it perfectly plain that the Act of Supremacy, with its stern and peremptory demands, was no more than a legitimate and necessary defence against organised treason. It was thus inevitable that much would have to be added to what I had already published. When a microscope is applied to the petal of a flower or the wing of an insect, simple outlines and simple surfaces are resolved into complex organisms with curious and beautiful details. The effect of these despatches is precisely the same--we see with the eyes, we hear with the ears, of men who were living parts of the scenes which they describe. Stories afterwards elaborated into established facts we trace to their origin in rumours of the hour; we read innumerable anecdotes, some with the clear stamp of truth on them, many mere creations of passing wit or malice, no more authentic than the thousands like them which circulate in modern society, guaranteed by the positive assertions of personal witnesses, yet visibly recognisable as lies. Through all this the reader must pick his way and use his own judgment. He knows that many things are false which are reported about his own eminent contemporaries. He may be equally certain that lies were told as freely then as now. He will probably allow his sympathies to guide him. He will accept as fact what fits in with his creed or his theory. He will share the general disposition to believe evil, especially about kings and great men. The exaggerated homage paid to princes, when they are alive, has to be compensated by suspecting the worst of them as soon as they are gone. But the perusal of all these documents leaves the broad aspect of the story, in my opinion, precisely where it was. It is made more interesting by the greater fulness of particulars; it is made more vivid by the clear view which they afford of individual persons who before were no more than names. But I think now, as I thought forty years ago, that through the confusions and contradictions of a stormy and angry time, the statute-book remains the safest guide to follow. If there be any difference, it is that actions which till explained appeared gratuitously cruel, like the execution of Bishop Fisher, are seen beyond dispute to have been reasonable and just. Bishop Fisher is proved by the words of the Spanish Ambassador himself to have invited and pressed the introduction of a foreign Catholic army into England in the Pope's interest. Thus I find nothing to withdraw in what I then wrote, and little to alter save in correcting some small errors of trivial moment; but, on the other hand, I find much to add; and the question rises in what way I had better do it, with fair consideration for those who have bought the book as it stands. To take the work to pieces and introduce the new material into the text or the notes will impose a necessity of buying a new copy, or of being left with an inferior one, on the many friends who least deserve to be so treated. I have concluded, therefore, on writing an additional volume, where such parts of the story as have had important light thrown upon them can be told over again in ampler form. The body of the history I leave as it stands. It contains what I believe to be a true account of the time, of the immediate causes which brought about the changes of the sixteenth century, and of the characters and principles of the actors in them. I have only to fill up certain deficiencies and throw light into places hitherto left dark. For the rest, I do not pretend to impartiality. I believe the Reformation to have been the greatest incident in English history; the root and source of the expansive force which has spread the Anglo-Saxon race over the globe, and imprinted the English genius and character on the constitution of mankind. I am unwilling to believe more evil than I can help of my countrymen who accomplished so beneficent a work, and in a book written with such convictions the mythical element cannot be wholly wanting. Even things which immediately surround us, things which we see and touch, we do not perceive as they are; we perceive only our own sensations, and our sensations are a combined result of certain objects and of the faculties which apprehend them. Something of ourselves must always be intermixed before knowledge can reach us; in every conclusion which we form, in every conviction which is forced upon us, there is still a subjective element. It is so in physical science. It is so in art. It is so in our speculations on our own nature. It is so in religion. It is so even in pure mathematics. The curved and rectilineal figures on which we reason are our own creation, and have no existence exterior to the reasoning mind. Most of all is it so in history, where we have no direct perceptions to help us, but are dependent on the narratives of others whose beliefs were necessarily influenced by their personal dispositions. The first duty of an historian is to be on his guard against his own sympathies; but he cannot wholly escape their influence. In judging of the truth of particular statements, the conclusion which he will form must be based partly upon evidence and partly upon what he conceives to be likely or unlikely. In a court of justice, where witnesses can be cross-examined, uncertain elements can in some degree be eliminated; yet, after all care is taken, judges and juries have been often blinded by passion and prejudice. When we have nothing before us but rumours set in circulation, we know not by whom or on what authority, and we are driven to consider probabilities, the Protestant, who believes the Reformation to have been a victory of truth over falsehood, cannot come to the same conclusion as the Catholic, who believes it to have been a curse, or perhaps to the same conclusion as the indifferent philosopher, who regards Protestant and Catholic alike with benevolent contempt. For myself, I can but say that I have discriminated with such faculty as I possess. I have kept back nothing. I have consciously distorted nothing which conflicts with my own views. I have accepted what seems sufficiently proved. I have rejected what I can find no support for save in hearsay or prejudice. But whether accepting or rejecting, I have endeavoured to follow the rule that incidents must not be lightly accepted as authentic which are inconsistent with the universal laws of human nature, and that to disprove a calumny it is sufficient to show that there is no valid witness for it. Finally, I do not allow myself to be tempted into controversy with particular writers whose views disagree with my own. To contradict in detail every hostile version of Henry VIII.'s or his ministers' conduct would be as tedious as it would be irritating and unprofitable. My censors have been so many that a reply to them all is impossible, and so distinguished that a selection would be invidious. Those who wish for invectives against the King, or Cranmer, or Cromwell, can find them everywhere, from school manuals to the grave works of elaborate historians. For me, it is enough to tell the story as it presents itself to my own mind, and to leave what appears to me to be the truth to speak for itself. The English nation throughout their long history have borne an honourable reputation. Luther quotes a saying of Maximilian that there were three real sovereigns in Europe--the Emperor, the King of France, and the King of England. The Emperor was a king of kings. If he gave an order to the princes of the Reich, they obeyed or disobeyed as they pleased. The King of France was a king of asses. He ordered about his people at his will, and they obeyed like asses. The King of England was king of a loyal nation who obeyed him with heart and mind as loyal and faithful subjects. This was the character borne in the world by the fathers of the generation whom popular historians represent as having dishonoured themselves by subserviency to a bloodthirsty tyrant. It is at least possible that popular historians have been mistaken, and that the subjects of Henry VIII. were neither much better nor much worse than those who preceded or came after them. CHAPTER I. Prospects of a disputed succession to the crown--Various claimants-- Catherine incapable of having further children--Irregularity of her marriage with the King--Papal dispensations--First mention of the divorce--Situation of the Papacy--Charles V.--Policy of Wolsey-- Anglo-French alliance--Imperial troops in Italy--Appeal of the Pope-- Mission of Inigo de Mendoza--The Bishop of Tarbes--Legitimacy of the Princess Mary called in question--Secret meeting of the Legates' court-- Alarms of Catherine--Sack of Rome by the Duke of Bourbon--Proposed reform of the Papacy--The divorce promoted by Wolsey--Unpopular in England-- Attempts of the Emperor to gain Wolsey. In the year 1526 the political prospects of England became seriously clouded. A disputed succession had led in the previous century to a desperate civil war. In that year it became known in private circles that if Henry VIII. was to die the realm would again be left without a certain heir, and that the strife of the Roses might be renewed on an even more distracting scale. The sons who had been born to Queen Catherine had died in childbirth or had died immediately after it. The passionate hope of the country that she might still produce a male child who would survive had been constantly disappointed, and now could be entertained no longer. She was eight years older than her husband. She had "certain diseases" which made it impossible that she should be again pregnant, and Henry had for two years ceased to cohabit with her. He had two children still living--the Princess Mary, Catherine's daughter, then a girl of eleven, and an illegitimate son born in 1519, the mother being a daughter of Sir John Blount, and married afterwards to Sir Gilbert Talboys. By presumptive law the Princess was the next heir; but no woman had ever sat on the throne of England alone and in her own right, and it was doubtful whether the nation would submit to a female sovereign. The boy, though excluded by his birth from the prospect of the crown, was yet brought up with exceptional care, called a prince by his tutors, and probably regarded by his father as a possible successor should his sister go the way of her brothers. In 1525, after the King had deliberately withdrawn from Catherine, he was created Duke of Richmond--a title of peculiar significance, since it had been borne by his grandfather, Henry VII.--and he was granted precedence over the rest of the peerage. Illegitimacy was a serious, but, it might be thought, was not an absolute, bar. The Conqueror had been himself a bastard. The Church, by its habits of granting dispensations for irregular marriages or of dissolving them on pleas of affinity or consanguinity or other pretext, had confused the distinction between legitimate and illegitimate. A Church Court had illegitimatised the children of Edward IV. and Elizabeth Grey, on the ground of one of Edward's previous connections; yet no one regarded the princes murdered in the Tower as having been illegitimate in reality; and to prevent disputes and for an adequate object, the Duke of Richmond, had he grown to manhood, might, in the absence of other claims, have been recognised by Parliament. But the Duke was still a child, and might die as Henry's other sons had died; and other claims there were which, in the face of the bar sinister, could not fail to be asserted. James V. of Scotland was next in blood, being the son of Henry's eldest sister, Margaret. There were the Greys, inheriting from the second sister, Mary. Outside the royal house there were the still popular representatives of the White Rose, the Marquis of Exeter, who was Edward IV.'s grandson; the Countess of Salisbury, daughter of Edward's brother the Duke of Clarence, and sister of the murdered Earl of Warwick; and Henry's life was the only obstacle between the collision of these opposing pretensions. James, it was quite certain, would not be allowed to succeed without a struggle. National rivalry forbade it. Yet it was no less certain that he would try, and would probably be backed by France. There was but one escape from convulsions which might easily be the ruin of the realm. The King was in the flower of his age, and might naturally look for a Prince of Wales to come after him if he was married to a woman capable of bearing one. It is neither unnatural nor, under the circumstances, a matter to be censured if he and others began to reflect upon the peculiar character of his connection with Catherine of Aragon. It is not sufficiently remembered that the marriage of a widow with her husband's brother was then, as it is now, forbidden by the laws of all civilised countries. Such a marriage at the present day would be held _ipso facto_ invalid and not a marriage at all. An irregular power was then held to rest with the successors of St. Peter to dispense, under certain conditions, with the inhibitory rules. The popes are now understood to have never rightly possessed such an authority, and therefore, according to modern law and sentiment, Henry and Catherine never were husband and wife at all. At the time it was uncertain whether the dispensing power extended so far as to sanction such a union, and when the discussion rose upon it the Roman canonists were themselves divided. Those who maintained the widest view of the papal faculty yet agreed that such a dispensation could only be granted for urgent cause, such as to prevent foreign wars or internal seditions, and no such cause was alleged to have existed when Ferdinand and Henry VII. arranged the marriage between their children. The dispensation had been granted by Pope Julius with reluctance, had been acted upon after considerable hesitation, and was of doubtful validity, since the necessary conditions were absent. The marriages of kings were determined with little reference to the personal affection of the parties. Between Henry and Catherine there was probably as much and as little personal attachment as there usually is in such cases. He respected and perhaps admired her character; but she was not beautiful, she was not attractive, while she was as proud and intractable as her mother Isabella. Their union had been settled by the two fathers to cement the alliance between England and Spain. Such connections rest on a different foundation from those which are voluntarily entered into between private persons. What is made up for political reasons may pardonably be dissolved when other reasons of a similar kind require it; and when it became clear that Catherine could never bear another child, that the penalty threatened in the Levitical law against marriages of this precise kind had been literally enforced in the death of the male offspring, and that civil war was imminent in consequence upon the King's death, Henry may have doubted in good faith whether she had ever been his wife at all--whether, in fact, the marriage was not of the character which everyone would now allow to attach to similar unions. Had there been a Prince of Wales, the question would never have arisen, and Henry, like other kings, would have borne his fate. But there was no prince, and the question had risen, and there was no reason why it should not. There was no trace at the outset of an attachment to another woman. If there had been, there would be little to condemn; but Anne Boleyn, when it was first mooted, was no more to the King than any other lady of the court. He required a wife who could produce a son to secure the succession. The powers which had allowed an irregular marriage could equally dissolve it, and the King felt that he had a right to demand a familiar concession which other sovereigns had often applied for in one form or another, and rarely in vain. Thus as early as 1526 certainly, and probably as much as a year before, Cardinal Wolsey had been feeling his way at Rome for a separation between Henry and Catherine. On September 7 in that year the Bishop of Bath, who was English Ambassador at Paris, informed the Cardinal of the arrival there of a confidential agent of Pope Clement VII. The agent had spoken to the Bishop on this especial subject, and had informed him that there would be difficulties about it.[1] The "blessed divorce"--_benedictum divorcium_ the Bishop calls it--had been already under consideration at Rome. The difficulties were not specified, but the political features of the time obliged Clement to be circumspect, and it was these that were probably referred to. Francis I. had been defeated and taken prisoner by the Imperialists at Pavia. He had been carried to Spain, and had been released at Henry's intercession, under severe conditions, to which he had reluctantly consented, and his sons had been left at Madrid as hostages for the due fulfilment of them. The victorious army, half Spanish, half German, remained under the Duke of Bourbon to complete the conquest of Italy; and Charles V., with his already vast dominions and a treasury which the world believed to be inexhaustibly supplied from the gold mines of the New World, seemed advancing to universal empire. France in the preceding centuries had been the hereditary enemy of England; Spain and Burgundy her hereditary friends. The marriage of Catherine of Aragon had been a special feature of the established alliance. She was given first to Prince Arthur, and then to Henry, as a link in the confederacy which was to hold in check French ambition. Times were changing. Charles V. had been elected emperor, largely through English influence; but Charles was threatening to be a more serious danger to Europe than France had been. The Italian princes were too weak to resist the conqueror of Pavia. Italy once conquered, the Papacy would become a dependency of the empire, and, with Charles's German subjects in open revolt against it, the Church would lose its authority, and the organisation of the Catholic world would fall into hopeless decrepitude. So thought Wolsey, the most sharp-sighted of English ministers. He believed that the maintenance of the Papacy was the best defence of order and liberty. The only remedy which he could see was a change of partners. England held the balance between the great rival powers. If the English alliance could be transferred from the Empire to France, the Emperor could be held in check, and his supposed ambition neutralised. Wolsey was utterly mistaken; but the mistake was not an unnatural one. Charles, busy with his Italian wars, had treated the Lutheran schism with suspicious forbearance. Notwithstanding his Indian ingots his finances were disordered. Bourbon's lansquenets had been left to pay themselves by plunder. They had sacked monasteries, pillaged cathedral plate, and ravished nuns with irreverent ferocity. The estates of the Church had been as little spared by them as Lombardy; and to Clement VII. the invasion was another inroad of barbarians, and Bourbon a second Attila. What Bourbon's master meant by it, and what he might intend to do, was as uncertain to Clement as perhaps it was to Charles himself. In the prostrate, degraded, and desperate condition into which the Church was falling, any resolution was possible. To the clearest eyes in Europe the Papacy seemed tottering to its fall, and Charles's hand, if he chose to raise it, might precipitate the catastrophe. To ask a pope at such a time to give mortal offence to the Spanish nation by agreeing to the divorce of Catherine of Aragon was to ask him to sign his death-warrant. No wonder, therefore, that he found difficulties. Yet it was to France and England that Clement had to look for help in his extremities. The divorce perhaps had as yet been no more than a suggestion, a part of a policy which was still in its infancy. It could wait at any rate for a more convenient season. Meantime he sent his secretary, Sanga, to Paris to beg aid; and to Henry personally he made a passionate appeal, imploring him not to desert the Apostolic See in its hour of extreme need. He apologised for his importunacy, but he said he hoped that history would not have to record that Italy had been devastated in the time of Clement VII. to the dishonour of the King and of Wolsey. If France and England failed him, he would himself be ruined. The Emperor would be universal monarch. They would open their eyes at last, but they would open them too late. So piteous was the entreaty that Henry when he read the Pope's letter burst into tears.[2] Clement had not been idle. He had brought his own small army into the field to oppose Bourbon; he joined the Italian League, and prepared to defend himself. He was called the father of Christendom, yet he was at open war with the most Catholic king. But Wolsey reasonably considered that unless the Western powers interfered the end would come. If England was to act, she could act only in alliance with France. The change of policy was ill understood, and was not popular among Henry's subjects. The divorce as yet had not been spoken of. No breath of such a purpose had gone abroad. But English sentiment was imperial, and could endure with equanimity even the afflictions of a pope. The King was more papal than his people; he allowed Wolsey to guide him, and negotiations were set on foot at once for a special treaty with France, one of the conditions of which was to be the marriage of the Princess Mary--allotted like a card in a game--either to Francis or to one of his sons; another condition being that the English crown should be settled upon her should Henry die without a legitimate son. Sir John Russell was simultaneously despatched to Rome with money to help the Pope in paying his troops and garrisoning the city. The ducats and the "kind words" which accompanied them "created incredible joy," encouraged his Holiness to reject unjust conditions which had been offered, and restored him, if for the moment only, "from death to life."[3] If Russell described correctly what he saw in passing through Italy, Clement had good cause for anxiety. "The Swabians and Spaniards," he wrote, "had committed horrible atrocities. They had burnt houses to the value of two hundred million ducats, with all the churches, images, and priests that fell into their hands. They had compelled the priests and monks to violate the nuns. Even where they were received without opposition they had burned the place; they had not spared the boys, and they had carried off the girls; and whenever they found the Sacrament of the Church they had thrown it into a river or into the vilest place they could find. If God did not punish such cruelty and wickedness, men would infer that He did not trouble Himself about the affairs of this world."[4] The news from Italy gave a fresh impulse to Wolsey's policy and the Anglo-French Alliance, which was pushed forward in spite of popular disapproval. The Emperor, unable to pay, and therefore unable to control, his troops, became himself alarmed. He found himself pressed into a course which was stimulating the German revolt against the Papacy, and he professed himself anxious to end the war. Inigo de Mendoza, the Bishop of Burgos, was despatched to Paris to negotiate for a general pacification. From Paris he was to proceed to London to assure Henry of the Emperor's inalienable friendship, and above all things to gain over Wolsey by the means which experience had shown to be the nearest way to Wolsey's heart. The great Cardinal was already Charles's pensionary, but the pension was several years in arrear. Mendoza was to tell him not only that the arrears should be immediately paid up, but that a second pension should be secured to him on the revenues of Milan, and that the Emperor would make him a further grant of 6,000 ducats annually out of the income of Spanish bishoprics. No means was to be spared to divert the hostility of so dangerous an enemy.[5] Wolsey was not to be so easily gained. He had formed large schemes which he did not mean to part with, and in the matter of pensions Francis I. was as liberal in promises as Charles. The Pope's prospects were brightening. Besides the English money, he had improved his finances by creating six new cardinals, and making 240,000 crowns out of the disposition of these sacred offices.[6] A French embassy, with the Bishop of Tarbes at its head, came to England to complete the treaty with Henry in the Pope's defence. Demands were to be made upon the Emperor; if those demands were refused, war was to follow, and the cement of the alliance was to be the marriage of Mary with a French prince. It is likely that other secret projects were in view also of a similar kind. The marriage of Henry with Catherine had been intended to secure the continuance of the alliance with Spain. Royal ladies were the counters with which politicians played; and probably enough there were thoughts of placing a French princess in Catherine's place. However this may be, the legality of the King's marriage with his nominal queen was suddenly and indirectly raised in the discussion of the terms of the treaty, when the Bishop of Tarbes inquired whether it was certain that Catherine's daughter was legitimate. Mr. Brewer, the careful and admirable editor of the "Foreign and Domestic Calendar of State Papers," doubts whether the Bishop did anything of the kind. I cannot agree with Mr. Brewer. The Bishop of Tarbes was among the best-known diplomatists in Europe. He was actively concerned during subsequent years in the process of the divorce case in London, in Paris, and at Rome. The expressions which he used on this occasion were publicly appealed to by Henry in his addresses to the peers and to the country, in the public pleas which he laid before the English prelates, in the various repeated defences which he made for his conduct. It is impossible that the Bishop should have been ignorant of the use which was made of his name, and impossible equally to suppose that he would have allowed his name to be used unfairly. The Bishop of Tarbes was unquestionably the first person to bring the question publicly forward. It is likely enough, however, that his introduction of so startling a topic had been privately arranged between himself and Wolsey as a prelude to the further steps which were immediately to follow. For the divorce had by this time been finally resolved on as part of a general scheme for the alteration of the balance of power. The domestic reasons for it were as weighty as ever were alleged for similar separations. The Pope's hesitation, it might be assumed, would now be overcome, since he had flung himself for support upon England and France, and his relations with the Emperor could hardly be worse than they were. The outer world, and even the persons principally concerned, were taken entirely by surprise. For the two years during which it had been under consideration the secret had been successfully preserved. Not a hint had reached Catherine herself, and even when the match had been lighted by the Bishop of Tarbes the full meaning of it does not seem to have occurred to her. Mendoza, on his arrival in England, had found her disturbed; she was irritated at the position which had been given to the Duke of Richmond; she was angry, of course, at the French alliance; she complained that she was kept in the dark about public affairs; she was exerting herself to the utmost among the friends of the imperial connection to arrest Wolsey's policy and maintain the ancient traditions; but of the divorce she had not heard a word. It was to come upon her like a thunderstroke.[7] Before the drama opens a brief description will not be out of place of the two persons who were to play the principal parts on the stage, as they were seen a year later by Ludovico Falieri, the Venetian ambassador in England. Of Catherine his account is brief. "The Queen is of low stature and rather stout; very good and very religious; speaks Spanish, French, Flemish, and English; more beloved by the Islanders than any queen that has ever reigned; about forty-five years old, and has been in England thirty years. She has had two sons and one daughter. Both the sons died in infancy. One daughter survives." On the King, Falieri is more elaborate. "In the 8th Henry such beauty of mind and body is combined as to surprise and astonish. Grand stature, suited to his exalted position, showing the superiority of mind and character; a face like an angel's, so fair it is; his head bald like Cæsar's, and he wears a beard, which is not the English custom. He is accomplished in every manly exercise, sits his horse well, tilts with his lance, throws the quoit, shoots with his bow excellent well; he is a fine tennis player, and he practises all these gifts with the greatest industry. Such a prince could not fail to have cultivated also his character and his intellect. He has been a student from his childhood; he knows literature, philosophy, and theology; speaks and writes Spanish, French, and Italian, besides Latin and English. He is kind, gracious, courteous, liberal, especially to men of learning, whom he is always ready to help. He appears religious also, generally hears two masses a day, and on holy days High Mass besides. He is very charitable, giving away ten thousand gold ducats annually among orphans, widows, and cripples."[8] Such was the King, such the Queen, whom fate and the preposterous pretensions of the Papacy to dispense with the established marriage laws had irregularly mated, and whose separation was to shake the European world. Pope Clement complained in subsequent years that the burden of decision should have been thrown in the first instance upon himself. If the King had proceeded at the outset to try the question in the English courts; if a judgment had been given unfavourable to the marriage, and had he immediately acted upon it, Queen Catherine might have appealed to the Holy See; but accomplished facts were solid things. Her case might have been indefinitely protracted by legal technicalities till it died of itself. It would have been a characteristic method of escape out of the difficulty, and it was a view which Wolsey himself perhaps at first entertained. He knew that the Pope was unwilling to take the first step. On the 17th of May, 1527, after a discussion of the Treaty with France, he called a meeting of his Legatine court at York Place. Archbishop Warham sate with him as assessor. The King attended, and the Cardinal, having stated that a question had arisen on the lawfulness of his marriage, enquired whether the King, for the sake of public morals and the good of his own soul, would allow the objections to be examined into. The King assented, and named a proctor. The Bull of Julius II. was introduced and considered. Wolsey declared that in a case so intricate the canon lawyers must be consulted, and he asked for the opinions of the assembled bishops. The bishops, one only excepted, gave dubious answers. The aged Bishop of Rochester, reputed the holiest and wisest of them, said decidedly that the marriage was good, and the Bull which legalised it sufficient. These proceedings were not followed up, but the secrecy which had hitherto been observed was no longer possible, and Catherine and her friends learnt now for the first time the measure which was in contemplation. Mendoza, writing on the day following the York Place meeting to the Emperor, informed him, as a fact which he had learnt on reliable authority, that Wolsey, for a final stroke of wickedness, was scheming to divorce the Queen. She was so much alarmed that she did not venture herself to speak of it, but it was certain that the lawyers and bishops had been invited to sign a declaration that, being his brother's widow, she could not be the wife of the King. The Pope, she was afraid, might be tempted to take part against her, or the Cardinal himself might deliver judgment as Papal Legate. Her one hope was in the Emperor. The cause of the action taken against her was her fidelity to the Imperial interests. Nothing as yet had been made formally public, and she begged that the whole matter might be kept as private as possible.[9] That the Pope would be willing, if he dared, to gratify Henry at Charles's expense was only too likely. The German Lutherans and the German Emperor were at the moment his most dangerous enemies. France and England were the only Powers who seemed willing to assist him, and a week before the meeting of Wolsey's court he had experienced in the most terrible form what the imperial hostility might bring upon him. On the 7th of that same month of May the army of the Duke of Bourbon had taken Rome by storm. The city was given up to pillage. Reverend cardinals were dragged through the streets on mules' backs, dishonoured and mutilated. Convents of nuns were abandoned to the licentious soldiery. The horrors of the capture may have been exaggerated, but it is quite certain that to holy things or holy persons no respect was paid, and that the atrocities which in those days were usually perpetrated in stormed towns were on this occasion eminently conspicuous. The unfortunate Pope, shut up in the Castle of St. Angelo, looked down from its battlements upon scenes so dreadful that it must have appeared as if the Papacy and the Church itself had been overtaken by the final judgment. We regard the Spaniards as a nation of bigots, we consider it impossible that the countrymen of Charles and Philip could have been animated by any such bitterness against the centre of Catholic Christendom. Charles himself is not likely to have intended the humiliation of the Holy See. But Clement had reason for his misgivings, and Wolsey's policy was not without excuse. Lope de Soria was Charles's Minister at Genoa, and Lope de Soria's opinions, freely uttered, may have been shared by many a Catholic besides himself. On the 25th of May, a fortnight after the storm, he wrote to his master the following noticeable letter:-- "The sack of Rome must be regarded as a visitation from God, who permits his servant the Emperor to teach his Vicar on earth and other Christian princes that their wicked purposes shall be defeated, the unjust wars which they have raised shall cease, peace be restored to Christendom, the faith be exalted, and heresy extirpated.... Should the Emperor think that the Church of God is not what it ought to be, and that the Pope's temporal power emboldens him to promote war among Christian princes, I cannot but remind your Majesty that it will not be a sin, but a meritorious action, to reform the Church; so that the Pope's authority be confined exclusively to his own spiritual affairs, and temporal affairs to be left to Cæsar, since by right what is God's belongs to God, and what is Cæsar's to Cæsar. I have been twenty-eight years in Italy, and I have observed that the Popes have been the sole cause of all the wars and miseries during that time. Your Imperial Majesty, as Supreme Lord on earth, is bound to apply a remedy to that evil."[10] Heretical English and Germans were not the only persons who could recognise the fitness of the secular supremacy of princes over popes and Churches. Such thoughts must have passed through the mind of Charles himself, and of many more besides him. De Soria's words might have been dictated by Luther or Thomas Cromwell. Had the Emperor at that moment placed himself at the head of the Reformation, all later history would have been different. One statesman at any rate had cause to fear that this might be what was about to happen. Wolsey was the embodiment of everything most objectionable and odious to the laity in the ecclesiastical administration of Europe. To defend the Papacy and to embarrass Charles was the surest method of protecting himself and his order. The divorce was an incident in the situation, but not the least important. Catherine represented the Imperial
ificance of religion are to be found through self-consciousness. This meaning of consciousness is twofold in nature. On the one hand, it is something that may be _known_, and, on the other hand, it is something that is _active_ through its own inherent energy. Here we find a difference between what we may _know_ we are and what we _are_. Our knowledge of what we are, the conditions of what we are, the history of what we are--all these are a help for us to be what we are capable of becoming. But all these are not the very movement of the becoming itself. That movement is the resultant of the spiritual potency after experiences in the form of cognition have marked out the path for conation. This conation is an inheritance; it is present in the form of dissatisfaction with the present situation; it moves in the direction of a goal which is marked out by intellect. Now, however much this conation may be analysed, it resists being decomposed into a number of elements which make it up, for any such number, except in the very manner they are united, could not produce the situation. In other words, whatever the history of this conation may be, it is now a unity or whole. [p.35] Conditioned as it is by the surrounding world and by its own history, in so far as it is this, it is _determined_; but it is still _free_ in so far as it is capable of becoming a new point of departure for life and of proceeding on its way in a world of spirit. Unless man's nature contained within itself some unity or whole of the kind already referred to, it would mean no more than a receptacle of momentary impressions which would vanish as soon as their physical effects had passed away. But man is in reality more than all this. In the form of memory and experience he is able to hold together in a core of his being the _meaning_ of these impressions after they have filtered into his consciousness. That is what we find, in however obscure a way, as the very beginning of every human life. This unity or whole, as already stated, may be no more than a potency in the beginning of life, but it gains in content and depth as it passes from impression to impression, and from experience to experience. And all further impressions and experiences have to be referred to this nucleus of the nature in order that they may be used and may prove themselves helpful. It is in this nucleus of the nature that everything obtains its meaning and value. The _Whole_ consequently grows, and gradually man becomes conscious of his personality as over against the environing world and even his own body. This consciousness of [p.36] _inwardness_ is of slow growth, because the natural tendency of life is to give a primary place to the world from which we have emerged--the world of physical existence, and also because much of that physical world reigns powerfully within our nature. But when reflection turns into itself, it becomes aware that the inwardness constitutes the kernel of a reality higher in its nature than anything either in the physical world or in the physical life which the man has to lead. Two modes of reality now present themselves to the life, neither of which allows itself to be conceived of as an illusion. On the one hand, we find the physical world and our own physical nature. We discover that we cannot jump out of these without destroying all we possess; we have to come to some kind of understanding with the physical world and our own physical existence. Yet, on the other hand, the consciousness of a kernel of our being, non-sensuous and spiritual in its nature, has for ever broken our satisfaction with the physical world and our own physical existence. There are only two alternatives on which we can act. Either we are to conceive of our spiritual personality as something secondary and subsidiary to the natural world, or we are to insist on its independence, and acknowledge it as the beginning of _a new mode of existence._ If the former alternative is chosen, the personality can never pass to a state of self-subsistence, [p.37] but will conceive of reality as something which is mainly physical. The consequence is that the personality will suffer seriously in its evolution, for such an evolution is brought about through the recognition and willing acknowledgment of the breaking forth of _a new kind of reality_ within the spiritual nucleus of life. If the latter alternative is chosen, this nucleus of life is now seen as something quite other than a quality entirely dependent upon the physical or than a mere flowering of the physical; it is seen as a reality higher in its nature than the physical or even than the ordinary life of the individual. Such a situation is forced on man when once he reflects upon the inward meaning of the content of his consciousness. It is true that such questions may be thrust into the background, and consequently inhibited from presenting us with their full value and significance. And it is this which happens only too often in daily life. The constant need of attention to external things, the absorption of the mind in conventionality and custom as these present themselves in the form of a ready-made inheritance--all these occupy so much of the attention as to prevent man from knowing and experiencing what _his own life_ is or what it is capable of becoming. Man has penetrated into the secrets of Nature as well as into the past of human society through close and constant attention to external things. [p.38] He has been able to gather fragments together, piece them into each other, and through this frame laws concerning them. It is thus that the external world and society have come to mean more to a human being than to an animal. The animal is probably almost entirely the creature of its instincts and of the percepts which present themselves to it from moment to moment, and which largely disappear. But man rises above this situation. The external world and everything that has ever happened on its face are not merely objects external to himself, which contain all their qualities in themselves. Somebody has to experience all this, and that somebody that experiences all this is _mental_ in his nature, however much this nature has been conditioned by _physical_ things in the past or present. Eucken emphasises this fundamental fact in all his books. Wherever a being is capable of _experiencing_ impressions and of giving _meanings_ to these, we are bound to conclude that the power which does this is something quite other than physical in its nature. It may be that such a power has never been known except in connection with what is physical; it may be that various chemical changes give the truer and clearer explanation of its origin, as far as its origin can be known at all; it may be that there was nothing of the _mental_ visible in the early stages of its development; but all this is very different from stating that [p.39] no potentiality for mental evolution was there. And it is this potentiality which is the issue at stake. We have no warrant for stating that it does not exist because it does not lend itself to be verified by the senses. Where does _mind_ manifest itself to the senses? It is something which does not exist in space as a horse or a tree. It may be that consciousness has emanated from simple chemical beginnings and combinations, but it is not a simple or a chemical thing _now_. We divide worlds into inorganic and organic. The main principle of division is necessitated on account of the fact that some characteristics are present in the former which are absent in the latter. It is precisely the same between Body and Mind, with one difference. Body and Mind are indissolubly connected, but one cannot be reduced into the other. However much the connection on one side may influence the other side, the difference between a _meaning_ and a _thing_ remains. And it is this fundamental difference which makes it absolutely necessary to acknowledge _a world_ of consciousness in contradistinction to a world of matter and its behaviour, whether such matter is to be found in the human body with its mechanical and chemical changes and transformations or in the physical universe outside our body. It is only when the mind becomes aware of its own existence--an existence not to be established as being in Space (or entirely in [p.40] Time) but as a reality subsisting in itself and in will-relations--that the efforts and fruitions of the spirit of man become intelligible at all. But such an awareness has become a permanent possession in a greater or less degree within the life of man. Whenever he becomes conscious of the fact that in his own soul a new phenomenon has made its appearance, he begins, after the willing acknowledgment of the reality of such a phenomenon, to exercise its potency over against the external world and over against much that is present in his own psychical life. A Higher and a Lower present themselves to him. The two alternatives force themselves, and there is no third: either this deeper kernel of his life must mean the possibility and, in a measure, the presence of _a new land of reality_; or, on the other hand, it means no more than a mere epiphenomenon and blossoming of the merely _natural_ life. If the latter view is adopted, the spiritual nucleus of man's nature obtains but slight attention except on the side of its connection with the surrounding organic world, and consequently what this nucleus is in itself as an experience recedes into the background, and descriptions and explanations in scientific or philosophical form step into the foreground. But a contradiction is imbedded in this very account. Some kind of experience of life, apart from, and higher in its nature than, the connection of the spiritual nucleus with its [p.41] physical history, persists in the life. The man of science is generally a good and worthy man. He believes in the moral life, and he does not throw the values of the centuries overboard. Such belief and valuation are not made up of the content of the explanation of life from its physical side, but are an unconscious acknowledgment of the presence of _truths and values as experiences and as now subsisting in themselves_, however much they are caused by physical things. If, on the other hand, an acknowledgment of the reality of this spiritual life is made, new questions immediately arise. And the most fundamental of these questions have always been those farther removed from any sensuous or physical domain. They are questions concerning the value and meaning of life. It is a deep conviction of the reality of the deeper kernel of our being that alone constitutes the entrance to a _new kind of world_. But to acknowledge the presence of such a new world does not signify the possession of it simultaneously with the acknowledgment. The new world is discovered, but it is not yet possessed. There are terrible obstacles in the way; there are enemies without and within to be conquered. It is of little use entering into this struggle without an acknowledgment--born of an inward necessity--of the spiritual nucleus of our nature. Unless man has accustomed himself to hold fast to this "subtle thing termed spirit" [p.42] he will soon be swamped in the region of the natural life once more; and when this happens the spiritual nucleus loses the consciousness of its own real subsistence as something higher in its nature than physical things or than the body and the ordinary life of the day. If the enterprise is to issue in anything that is great and good--into a spiritual world with an ever-growing content here and now--an insistence upon the reality of this deeper life coupled with the highest end which presents itself to the life must be made. Something is now seen in the distance as the meaning and value of life--something which our deeper nature longs for, and which has created a cleft within the soul between the ordinary things of sense and time and that which "never was on sea or land." It is something of this nature which Eucken discovers as the germ of all the spiritual ideas of religion as well as of the essence of religion itself. The Godhead, Eternity, Immortality, are concepts which arise within the soul through a consciousness of the inadequacy of all natural things and of even mental descriptions and explanations to answer and to satisfy the potency and longing of human nature. Most of the great thinkers of the ages have insisted on the necessity of the recognition and acknowledgment of this deeper life which is in dire need of a content. If man is not to be swamped by the external and become the [p.43] mere sport of the "wind and wave" of the environment, he has to enter somehow into the very centre of his being and become convinced that the dictates which proceed from that centre are the most fundamental things in life. This has always formed the kernel of religion, however often men, failing to reach that kernel, have lived on the husks. But even this very sham notifies some small attempt in the right direction. In modern times--in the various forms of Idealism and Pragmatism--such a need of getting at the core of being and of being convinced that the effort is worth while, has been emphasised again and again. "_Launch yourselves with as strong and decided an initiative as possible_. Accumulate all the possible circumstances which shall re-enforce the right motives; put yourself assiduously in conditions that encourage the new way; make engagements incompatible with the old; take a public pledge, if the case allows; in short, envelop your resolution with every aid you know. This will give your new beginning such a momentum that the temptation to break down will not occur as soon as it otherwise might; and every day during which a breakdown is postponed adds to the chances of its not occurring at all."[8] "The Stoic and Butler also said, 'Follow God.' In each case you must realise that, whatever you do, you take your life in your [p.44] hands; you enter on a grand enterprise, a search for the Holy Grail, which will bring you to strange lands and perilous seas. For you cannot say, interpreting, 'Thus far and no further, merely according to the bond and the duty.' In following God, you follow by what has been, what is ruled and accomplished, but you follow after what is not yet. 'It may be that the gulfs will wash us down'; it may be that the gods of the past will rain upon us brimstone and horrible tempest. But he that is with us is more than all that are against us. Whoever keeps his ear ever open to duty, always forward, never attained, is not far from the kingdom. The gods may be against him, the demi-gods may depart; but he, as said Plotinus, 'if alone, is with the Alone.'"[9] It is impossible for us, as Eucken constantly insists, to stop short of this. Who can prescribe limits to the capability of consciousness when it is focussed, in the form of a conviction, on the deepest problems which press themselves upon it? There is only one objection that the empiricist can bring forward, and that is that all such ideals can never be proved to exist as things exist in space. But, as already hinted, is existence in space the only form of existence? Is it not necessary for something which is _not_ in space to make us aware of what is in space? "If not as men of science, yet as [p.45] men, as human beings, we have to put things together, to form some total estimate of the drift of development, of the unity of nature."[10] If the deepest core of consciousness is acknowledged and the vague ideals and ends which present themselves are attended to, _something new happens_ in the life. Life now starts on the great enterprise referred to by William Wallace. It finds its highest reality in an experience born within itself and differentiated for ever from the natural and even the intellectual life. To such a conclusion man is forced; and if the situation is evaded, something within his soul never comes to birth. It is seen at once that in order to know the content of this _new world_, it is necessary for a long series of struggles to take place. And to this point we now turn. The deeper consciousness has relegated the natural world to a secondary place, and has further shown man that the main object of life includes not only finding a footing against the dangers of natural things, but to plant oneself within a spiritual world of meanings and values. This cannot be done without _an independent and decisive act of the soul_. A meaning of life has now revealed itself beyond that of the "small self." This meaning can be reached only through this decisive act of the soul. This meaning is _over-individual_ in its nature; [p.46] it is a truth, goodness, or beauty, which presents itself as an idea and ideal formed by the experiences of many individuals, at different epochs and in different circumstances. Thus the individual, in order to realise his own life, must work with material presented in the community. Such material has been found helpful in the life of the community. It consists of collective results made up of large numbers of single factors. These have been tied together in the form of various syntheses. Such various syntheses comprise a larger meaning than what ordinarily happens from moment to moment in connection with the relation of the individual to the external world or, indeed, within the individual's own ordinary life. Many of the isolated, fragmentary experiences of the individual have to give way when tested in the light of any larger synthesis. If this were not so, no commercial, social, civilised life would be possible at all. The more real life is now perceived to be that of the larger meaning and value. The individual, solitary experiences may be legitimate, for they often express wants and needs of the individual which have a certain right to obtain satisfaction. But the extent and limits of these rights have to be measured by some norm or standard other than themselves, or else each individual will proceed on his own course regardless of the rights of others. It is the presence of various syntheses which express the [p.47] collective life of the whole--of each and every individual--that makes civilisation possible. Thus, in the very process of civilisation itself, as Eucken points out, there is present a factor which is termed Spiritual, and which is not to be mistaken for a mere flow of cause and effect, or for one mere event following another. Eucken emphasises this all-important element of the over-individual qualities present in human history. There is here much which resembles Hegel's Absolute. But there is a great difference between the two in the sense that Eucken shows the constant need of spiritual activism on the part of individuals in order to realise and keep alive the norms and standards which have carried our world so far; and there is also the need of contributing something to the values of these through the creation of new qualities within the souls of the individuals themselves. But the problems of civilisation and morality are not the only, or the highest, problems which present themselves. But even such problems have partially been the means of drawing man outside himself, and of enabling him to see that his self can only be realised in connection with the common good and demands of the community. He now feels the necessity of living up to that standard. This is an important step in the direction of the moral and religious life. It reveals the presence of a spiritual nucleus of our being obtaining a content beyond the needs [p.48] of the moment; it shows life as realising itself in wide connections; and the individual becomes the possessor of a certain degree of spiritual inwardness in the process. Even as far as this level we find the deeper life--the spiritual life--insisting on the validity of its mental and moral conclusions over against the objects of sense. Without this insistence no knowledge would progress and be valid. The macrocosm is mirrored and coloured in a mental and moral microcosm. A replica of the external world has a reality in consciousness, and this reality is not a mere photograph of the external, but it is the external as it appears to the meaning it has obtained in consciousness. The meaning of the world is thus something beyond the world itself; it is more than appears at any one moment. If the world were less than this, if the percept could not somehow become a concept, all progress would come to a standstill, and we should be no more than creatures of sensations and percepts which vanished as soon as they appeared. But these do not vanish; they persist in various ways, as after-images, concepts, memory. Thus, in the very act of knowing anything at all, something greater than the physical object known is present. And Eucken would insist, therefore, that the mental and spiritual are present from the very beginning and bring to a mental focus the impressions of the senses. In the interpretation of Eucken's philosophy several writers [p.49] have missed the author's meaning here. They have, through the ambiguity of the term "spiritual" in English, conceived of "spiritual life" as something entirely different from the mental life. It is different, but only in the same way as the bud is different from the blossom; it means at the religious level a greater unfolding of a life which has been present at every stage in the history of civilisation and culture. But, as already noticed, the mental life is passed when we enter the life of a community. The norms and standards, already referred to, make their appearance and persist in demanding obedience to themselves even at the expense of much within consciousness that points in another direction. But even such a stage as this does not give satisfaction to man. Much effort and sacrifice are needed to live up to the life of the community. And such effort and sacrifice are often the best means of calling into activity a still deeper, reserved energy of the soul. The soul now recognises a value beyond the values of culture and civilisation. The Good, the True, and the Beautiful appear as the sole realities by the side of which everything that preceded, if taken as complete in itself, appears as a great shadow or illusion. Here we are reminded of Eucken's affinity with Plato's Doctrine of Ideas, as well as of his attachment to the revival of Platonism by Plotinus. Values for life, subsisting in themselves, become objects [p.50] of meditation, of "browsing," and of the deepest activity of the soul. Life is now viewed as consisting in a great and constant quest after these religious ideals. It sees its meaning beyond and above the range of mentality or even morality, though it is well that it should pass as often as possible through the gate of the former, and is bound to pass always through the gate of the latter. A break takes place with the "natural self"; the mental life of concepts, though necessary, is now seen as insufficient; and life is now viewed as having a "pearl of great price" before its gaze. Here the _stirb und werde_ of Paul and Goethe becomes necessary. The real education of man now begins. His life becomes guided and governed by norms whose limits cannot be discovered, and which have never been realised in their wholeness on the face of our earth. What can these mean? They cannot be delusions or illusions, for they answer too deep a need of the soul to be reduced to that level. If we blot them out of our existence, we sink back to a mere natural or mechanical stage. When the soul concentrates its deepest attention on these norms or ideals they fascinate it, they draw hidden energies into activity, they give inklings of immortality. Is it not far more conceivable that such a vision of meaning, of beauty, and of enchantment is a new kind of reality--cosmic in its nature and eternal in its duration? Man has to [p.51] come to a decision concerning this. There is no half-way house here possible without the deepest potencies of human nature suffering and failing to transform themselves from bud to blossom and fruit. At a later stage in our inquiry this question will recur in connection with the conception of the Godhead. But here it may be observed that to decide on the affirmative side that somehow such norms and ideals which mean so much are cosmic realities, is simply to state no more than that an evolutionary process is taking place towards a new kind of world as well as a new kind of existence. No outsider is competent to pronounce judgment on the validity of the proofs possessed within this spiritual realm. The qualifications here are beyond the range of knowledge, although knowledge does not cease to act within such a realm. The experiences here cannot be measured or weighed; and that a certain obscurity is present in them is only what may be expected, considering that the spiritual nature is farther removed from the region of nature with its physical existence than when it deals with problems on the intellectual level. But such spiritual proofs are found in the fact that these realities present themselves only at the height of spiritual development, and in the fact that they produce an _inversion_ of the nature of man, and change the centre of gravity of his life to a more inward recess of his being [p.52] than is open on the natural or intellectual side. Thus, once more, the soul is driven forward by its own necessities to a religious reality. What can it do but grant cosmic origin and validity to such ideals? If these ideals are not this, then, as Eucken points out, they are the most tragic illusions conceivable. When they are acknowledged as cosmic realities, man is in the midst of a religion of a _universal_ kind. But the acknowledgment of these as cosmic realities is something more than a concept. The men who have come to this conclusion required something more than logical arguments in order to establish this truth. The conclusions were based upon a _specific (characteristic)_ religious experience of their own. And such a religious experience was larger and more real than anything that could be established in the form of concepts concerning it. As we shall notice in a later chapter, it is somewhat on this account that Eucken differentiates between _universal_ and _specific (characteristic)_ religion. It becomes evident that such contents of the new spiritual world cannot be utilised by man without effort. These realities have to pass from the region of ideas to the region of actual experiences. In other words, they must become man's own religion. Man has now become convinced of the reality of a universal spiritual life as constituting, in a measure, the [p.53] foundation of the evolution of the soul, and as the goal towards which he must for ever move. Eucken is unwilling to speculate as to the origin or the goal of this. The centre of gravity of life must be laid in what may be known and experienced between these two poles. There is a certainty which is _intermediate_ between man and the Godhead. It is when this certainty is realised as an actual portion of the soul that man becomes competent to carry farther--backward and forward--the implications of this certainty. And implications of a new kind of _Weltanschauung_ result from the spiritual experiences of the _Lebensanschauung_ of the spiritual life. On this matter we shall touch at a later stage in the inquiry. At present let us confine our attention to the _intermediate_ reality which presents itself in a form that is over-individual. It is only when we pass out of the psychology of the subject--a matter that deals with the _history_ of mental processes--that we are able to view the meaning of the realities which are over-individual. As already pointed out, these realities are not the creations of man's fancy or imagination after reason has been switched off. They are non-sensuous realities which have moulded and shaped the lives of individuals and nations in varied degrees. These ideals are not to remain merely objects of knowledge; they are to become portions of the inmost experiences of the soul. This they cannot become without the [p.54] calling out of the deepest energy of the individual. His fragmentary spiritual life--small as it is--still calls for _more_ of its own nature, and this _more_ has been seen in the distance as something of infinite value.[11] A mountain, as it were, has to be climbed; dark ravines have to be gone through; and rivers have to be swum across. The whole vision means no less than an entrance into _a new kind of world_, the scaling to a new kind of existence, and a conquest which will make the pilgrim a participator in that which is Divine. A struggle has to take place, because so much that belongs to the life, on the level where it now stands, belongs to a world _below_ it. Impulses and passions, the narrow outlook, the timidity and hollowness of the "small self"--all these, which have previously remained at the centre of life, have to be thrust to the periphery of existence. So that an entrance into the highest spiritual world is not merely something to _know_, but far rather something to _do_ and to _be_. This is the meaning of Eucken's activism. It is not the busying of ourselves over trifles; there is no need of encouragement in that direction. It is rather the inward glance on the nature of the over-individual ideals; it is a deep and constant concentration upon their value and significance, in order that the soul may plant itself on the shores of the _over-world_. It is in granting a [p.55] higher mode of existence to these ideals, and in preserving them as the possession of the soul, that man finds the ever greater meaning of that spiritual life which was present within him from the very beginning of his enterprise. The process of forcing an entrance into this over-world has to be repeated time after time. There are no enemies in front, but the man is surrounded by them from around and behind him. The indifference, in a large measure of the natural process, the rigid instincts of mere self-preservation, the temptation to smugness and ease, the cold conclusions of the understanding when satisfied with explanations from the physical world, the hardness of the heart--these and many other enemies fight for supremacy, and the soul is often torn in the struggle. The struggle continues for a great length of time; but the history of the world testifies to an innumerable host of individuals who scaled and fell, who started again and again, until at last their conceptions of the Highest Good became a permanent experience and possession of their deepest being. And when the spiritual life creates an entrance into this _over-world_ something happens which makes a fundamental difference in the life. The life may again and again sink back to its old level, but what has happened will never allow it to remain satisfied on that level. "We fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake" (Browning). Life now becomes [p.56] alternately _a quest and a fruition_.[12] The individual has to gather his whole energies together because something great is at stake. This is nothing less than the possession of a new kind of reality. The struggle has yielded a conquest for the time being. He tastes and "eats his pot of honey on the grave" of enemies within and without. This fruition means no less than a taste of "eternal life in the midst of time" (Harnack), and the relegating of the whole world of phenomena to a subsidiary place. This is the kernel of Eucken's _Truth of Religion_. The book deals with the most subtle psychological problems of the soul, and reaches the conclusion of an entrance by man into a divine world. All this is far removed from the ordinary traditional conception either of God or of religion. Perhaps the majority of mankind is not as yet ready for such a presentation of religion. But I think it may be safely said that it is through some such mode of conceiving religion as this that the "great and good ones" of the world found an entrance into a divine world and grasped the conception of the evolution of the soul as a process which begins where organic evolution ends. * * * * * CHAPTER III [p.57] RELIGION AND NATURAL SCIENCE In the previous chapter we have noticed how man is able to reach an over-world which will grant him a new kind of reality over against the whole remaining domain of existence. But the evidence hitherto brought forth has been that of the nature of man himself. We have in this chapter to inquire whether there is a warrant for such a conclusion within the realm of natural science. Does science give any hint of the presence of spiritual life anywhere in the universe? Eucken answers distinctly in the affirmative.[13] The conclusions of natural science have, in modern times, come into direct conflict with religion. Traditional religion has grown up on a view of the universe which has been [p.58] utterly discarded by modern knowledge. Religious leaders have often had to be dragged to see the truth of this statement, and, as Eucken points out, many are still far from realising the seriousness of the cleft between knowledge and religion. The theology of the Middle Ages has not yet disappeared, although fortunately there are some signs of a great reconstruction going on in our midst. Fortunately, this naive view of the universe is a theology and not a religion; but doubtless even the religion of the soul suffers when its _knowing_ aspect is perpetually contradicted by scientific knowledge. There is such a close connection between "head" and "heart"--even closer than between body and mind--that the use of discarded theories of the universe and of life cannot but prove injurious to the deepest source of life. The mental conceptions of religion have, in the course of the ages, undergone many transformations, and there is no reason why another transformation should gradually not come about in the present. In Hebrew and Greek times we discover a polytheism, after a long course of development, emerging into henotheism, and finally, here and there, into monotheism. The old conceptions of gods and spirits present in trees and wells, mountains and air, are overcome. They are not so much destroyed as supplanted by higher conceptions. In pre-Socratic philosophy we find the gods and [p.59] spirits relegated to a secondary place, and Nature is conceived as a system of inner energies and strivings. In these conceptions Man is drawn closer to Nature, and the connection of his life is shown to be closely interwoven with the life of Nature. But the empirical aspect of this teaching was pushed into the background through the teachings of Socrates and Plato. The "myth" regained some of its pristine power in a new kind of way; and "God transcendent of the world and immanent in the world" came prominently forward as a doctrine of the universe and of life. This is the kernel of the Christian theology, constructed through the blending of Hebrew and Greek philosophies. Such a conception remained very largely the philosophy as well as the theology of the Christian Church until the seventeenth century. During this long interval hardly any progress was made in the investigation of Nature, so that such a theology proved rather a help than a hindrance to the religion of those who understood it. But such a theology has been destroyed, however unwilling many people are to acknowledge the fact. But until this fact is acknowledged, there is very little hope, in Eucken's opinion, of the Christian religion gaining many adherents from the side of those who understand the modern meaning and significance of natural science. The physical universe has become a problem; and the old solution was a matter [p.60] of speculation based upon scarcely any observation and experiment. Eucken marks the stages which have brought about a revolution in our conceptions of the universe as consisting of the change brought about in the science of astronomy through Copernicus in the sixteenth century, the founding of exact science through Galileo in the seventeenth century, and the theory of evolution propounded by Darwin and his followers in the nineteenth century. The whole tendency has been to describe and explain Nature in terms of mechanism, and to extend such mechanism into the life of man. Proof after proof has poured upon us, and has been the means, on the whole, of establishing a kingdom of mechanism within the realm of Nature and of human nature. Theology and speculative philosophy went on their courses unheedful of these developments of physical science, until in our day both have had to reconsider the tenableness of their position, and to see that Nature and its physical manifestations have to enter as all-important factors into their reconstructions. Miracle is now relegated to a secondary place in theology, and it has disappeared altogether from science; a Supreme Being transcendent of, and immanent in, the world is not known
me. "You may be all right as a sportsman," he declared, "but you are a damned murderer just the same for being here. You Americans who got into this thing before America came into the war are no better than common murderers and you ought to be treated the same way!" The wound in my mouth made it impossible for me to answer him, and I was suffering too much pain to be hurt very much by anything he could say. [Illustration: THE IDENTIFICATION DISK WORN BY LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN WHEN HE WAS CAPTURED BY THE HUNS. IT REVEALED TO THEM THAT HE WAS AN AMERICAN] He asked me if I would like an apple! I could just as easily have eaten a brick. When he got no answers out of me he walked away disgustedly. "You don't have to worry any more," he declared, as a parting shot; "for you the war is over!" I was given a little broth later in the day, and as I began to collect my thoughts I wondered what had happened to my comrades in the battle which had resulted so disastrously to me. As I began to realize my plight I worried less about my physical condition than the fact that, as the doctor had pointed out, for me the war was practically over. I had been in it but a short time, and now I would be a prisoner for the duration of the war! The next day some German flying officers visited me, and I must say they treated me with great consideration. They told me of the man I had brought down. They said he was a Bavarian and a fairly good pilot. They gave me his hat as a souvenir and complimented me on the fight I had put up. My helmet, which was of soft leather, was split from front to back by a bullet from a machine-gun and they examined it with great interest. When they brought me my uniform I found that the star of my rank which had been on my right shoulder-strap had been shot off clean. The one on my left shoulder-strap they asked me for as a souvenir, as also my R. F. C. badges, which I gave them. They allowed me to keep my "wings," which I wore on my left breast, because they were aware that that is the proudest possession of a British flying officer. I think I am right in saying that the only chivalry in this war on the German side of the trenches has been displayed by the officers of the German Flying Corps, which comprises the pick of Germany. They pointed out to me that I and my comrades were fighting purely for the love of it, whereas they were fighting in defense of their country, but still, they said, they admired us for our sportsmanship. I had a notion to ask them if dropping bombs on London and killing so many innocent people was in defense of their country, but I was in no position or condition to pick a quarrel at that time. That same day a German officer was brought into the hospital and put in the bunk next to mine. Of course, I casually looked at him, but did not pay any particular attention to him at that time. He lay there for three or four hours before I did take a real good look at him. I was positive that he could not speak English, and naturally I did not say anything to him. Once when I looked over in his direction his eyes were on me and to my surprise he said, very sarcastically, "What the hell are you looking at?" and then smiled. At this time I was just beginning to say a few words, my wound having made talking difficult, but I said enough to let him know what I was doing there and how I happened to be there. Evidently he had heard my story from some of the others, though, because he said it was too bad I had not broken my neck; that he did not have much sympathy with the Flying Corps, anyway. He asked me what part of America I came from, and I told him "California." After a few more questions he learned that I hailed from San Francisco, and then added to my distress by saying, "How would you like to have a good juicy steak right out of the Hofbräu?" Naturally, I told him it would "hit the spot," but I hardly thought my mouth was in shape just then to eat it. I immediately asked, of course, what he knew about the Hofbräu, and he replied, "I was connected with the place a good many years, and I ought to know all about it." After that this German officer and I became rather chummy--that is, as far as I could be chummy with an enemy, and we whiled away a good many long hours talking about the days we had spent in San Francisco, and frequently in the conversation one of us would mention some prominent Californian, or some little incident occurring there, with which we were both familiar. He told me when war was declared he was, of course, intensely patriotic and thought the only thing for him to do was to go back and aid in the defense of his country. He found that he could not go directly from San Francisco because the water was too well guarded by the English, so he boarded a boat for South America. There he obtained a forged passport and in the guise of a Montevidean took passage for New York and from there to England. He passed through England without any difficulty on his forged passport, but concluded not to risk going to Holland, for fear of exciting too much suspicion, so went down through the Strait of Gibraltar to Italy, which was neutral at that time, up to Austria, and thence to Germany. He said when they put in at Gibraltar, after leaving England, there were two suspects taken off the ship, men that he was sure were neutral subjects, but much to his relief his own passport and credentials were examined and passed O. K. The Hun spoke of his voyage from America to England as being exceptionally pleasant, and said he had had a fine time because he associated with the English passengers on board, his fluent English readily admitting him to several spirited arguments on the subject of the war which he keenly enjoyed. One little incident he related revealed the remarkable tact which our enemy displayed in his associations at sea, which no doubt resulted advantageously for him. As he expressed it, he "made a hit" one evening when the crowd had assembled for a little music by suggesting that they sing "God Save the King." Thereafter his popularity was assured and the desired effect accomplished, for very soon a French officer came up to him and said, "It's too bad that England and ourselves haven't men in our army like you." It was too bad, he agreed, in telling me about it, because he was confident he could have done a whole lot more for Germany if he had been in the English army. In spite of his apparent loyalty, however, the man didn't seem very enthusiastic over the war and frankly admitted one day that the old political battles waged in California were much more to his liking than the battles he had gone through over here. On second thought he laughed as though it were a good joke, but he evidently intended me to infer that he had taken a keen interest in politics in San Francisco. When my "chummy enemy" first started his conversation with me the German doctor in charge reprimanded him for talking to me, but he paid no attention to the doctor, showing that some real Americanism had soaked into his system while he had been in the U. S. A. I asked him one day what he thought the German people would do after the war; if he thought they would make Germany a republic, and, much to my surprise, he said, very bitterly, "If I had my way about it, I would make her a republic to-day and hang the damned Kaiser in the bargain." And yet he was considered an excellent soldier. I concluded, however, that he must have been a German Socialist, though he never told me so. On one occasion I asked him for his name, but he said that I would probably never see him again and it didn't matter what his name was. I did not know whether he meant that the Germans would starve me out or just what was on his mind, for at that time I am sure he did not figure on dying. The first two or three days I was in the hospital I thought surely he would be up and gone long before I was, but blood poisoning set in about that time and just a few hours before I left for Courtrai he died. One of those days, while my wound was still very troublesome, I was given an apple; whether it was just to torment me, knowing that I could not eat it, or whether for some other reason, I do not know. But, anyway, a German flying officer there had several in his pockets and gave me a nice one. Of course, there was no chance of my eating it, so when the officer had gone and I discovered this San Francisco fellow looking at it rather longingly I picked it up, intending to toss it over to him. But he shook his head and said, "If this was San Francisco, I would take it, but I cannot take it from you here." I was never able to understand just why he refused the apple, for he was usually sociable and a good fellow to talk to, but apparently he could not forget that I was his enemy. However, that did not stop one of the orderlies from eating the apple. One practice about the hospital which impressed me particularly was that if a German soldier did not stand much chance of recovering sufficiently to take his place again in the war, the doctors did not exert themselves to see that he got well. But if a man had a fairly good chance of recovering and they thought he might be of some further use, everything that medical skill could possibly do was done for him. I don't know whether this was done under orders or whether the doctors just followed their own inclinations in such cases. My teeth had been badly jarred up from the shot, and I hoped that I might have a chance to have them fixed when I reached Courtrai, the prison where I was to be taken. So I asked the doctor if it would be possible for me to have this work done there, but he very curtly told me that though there were several dentists at Courtrai, they were busy enough fixing the teeth of their own men without bothering about mine. He also added that I would not have to worry about my teeth; that I wouldn't be getting so much food that they would be put out of commission by working overtime. I wanted to tell him that from the way things looked he would not be wearing his out very soon, either. My condition improved during the next two days and on the fourth day of my captivity I was well enough to write a brief message to my squadron reporting that I was a prisoner of war and "feeling fine," although, as a matter of fact, I was never so depressed in my life. I realized, however, that if the message reached my comrades, it would be relayed to my mother in Momence, Illinois, and I did not want to worry her more than was absolutely necessary. It was enough for her to know that I was a prisoner. She did not have to know that I was wounded. I had hopes that my message would be carried over the lines and dropped by one of the German flying officers. That is a courtesy which is usually practised on both sides. I recalled how patiently we had waited in our aerodrome for news of our men who had failed to return, and I could picture my squadron speculating on my fate. That is one of the saddest things connected with service in the R. F. C. You don't care much what happens to you, but the constant casualties among your friends is very depressing. You go out with your "flight" and get into a muss. You get scattered and when your formation is broken up you finally wing your way home alone. Perhaps you are the first to land. Soon another machine shows in the sky, then another, and you patiently wait for the rest to appear. Within an hour, perhaps, all have shown up save one, and you begin to speculate and wonder what has happened to him. Has he lost his way? Has he landed at some other aerodrome? Did the Huns get him? When darkness comes you realize that, at any rate, he won't be back that night, and you hope for a telephone-call from him telling of his whereabouts. If the night passes without sign or word from him he is reported as missing, and then you watch for his casualty to appear in the war-office lists. One day, perhaps a month later, a message is dropped over the line by the German Flying Corps with a list of pilots captured or killed by the Huns, and then, for the first time, you know definitely why it was your comrade failed to return the day he last went over the line with his squadron. I was still musing over this melancholy phase of the scout's life when an orderly told me there was a beautiful battle going on in the air, and he volunteered to help me outside the hospital that I might witness it, and I readily accepted his assistance. That afternoon I saw one of the gamest fights I ever expect to witness. There were six of our machines against perhaps sixteen Huns. From the type of the British machines I knew that they might possibly be from my own aerodrome. Two of our machines had been apparently picked out by six of the Huns and were bearing the brunt of the fight. The contest seemed to me to be so unequal that victory for our men was hardly to be thought of, and yet at one time they so completely outmaneuvered the Huns that I thought their superior skill might save the day for them, despite the fact that they were so hopelessly outnumbered. One thing I was sure of: they would never give in. Of course it would have been a comparatively simple matter for our men, when they saw how things were going against them, to have turned their noses down, landed behind the German lines, and given themselves up as prisoners, but that is not the way of the R. F. C. A battle of this kind seldom lasts many minutes, although every second seems like an hour to those who participate in it and even onlookers suffer more thrills in the course of the struggle than they would ordinarily experience in a lifetime. It is apparent even to a novice that the loser's fate is death. Of course the Germans around the hospital were all watching and rooting for their comrades, but the English, too, had one sympathizer in that group who made no effort to stifle his admiration for the bravery his comrades were displaying. The end came suddenly. Four machines crashed to earth almost simultaneously. It was an even break--two of theirs and two of ours. The others apparently returned to their respective lines. The wound in my mouth was bothering me considerably, but by means of a pencil and paper I requested one of the German officers to find out for me who the English officers were who had been shot down. A little later he returned and handed me a photograph taken from the body of one of the victims. It was a picture of Paul Raney, of Toronto, and myself, taken together! Poor Raney! He was the best friend I had and one of the best and gamest men who ever fought in France! It was he, I learned long after, who, when I was reported missing, had checked over all my belongings and sent them back to England with a signed memorandum--which is now in my possession. Poor fellow, he little realized then that but a day or two later he would be engaged in his last heroic battle, with me a helpless onlooker! The same German officer who brought me the photograph also drew a map for me of the exact spot where Raney was buried in Flanders. I guarded it carefully all through my subsequent adventures and finally turned it over to his father and mother when I visited them in Toronto to perform the hardest and saddest duty I have ever been called upon to execute--to confirm to them in person the tidings of poor Paul's death. The other British pilot who fell was also from my squadron and a man I knew well--Lieutenant Keith, of Australia. I had given him a picture of myself only a few hours before I started on my own disastrous flight. He was one of the star pilots of our squadron and had been in many a desperate battle before, but this time the odds were too great for him. He put up a wonderful fight and he gave as much as he took. [Illustration: LIEUT. PAUL H. RANEY OF TORONTO AND LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN (Raney was killed in action before the eyes of O'Brien, who was a prisoner of war. This picture, found on the body of Raney when he fell behind the German lines, was handed to O'Brien to identify the victim.)] The next two days passed without incident and I was then taken to the Intelligence Department of the German Flying Corps, which was located about an hour from the hospital. There I was kept two days, during which time they put a thousand and one questions to me. While I was there I turned over to them the message I had written in the hospital and asked them to have one of their fliers drop it on our side of the line. They asked me where I would like it dropped, thinking perhaps I would give my aerodrome away, but when I smiled and shook my head they did not insist upon an answer. "I'll drop it over ----," declared one of them, naming my aerodrome, which revealed to me that their flying corps is as efficient as other branches of the service in the matter of obtaining valuable information. And right here I want to say that the more I came to know of the enemy the more keenly I realized what a difficult task we're going to have to lick him. In all my subsequent experience the fact that there is a heap of fight left in the Huns still was thoroughly brought home to me. We shall win the war eventually, if we don't slow up too soon in the mistaken idea that the Huns are ready to lie down. The flying officers who questioned me were extremely anxious to find out all they could about the part America is going to play in the war, but they evidently came to the conclusion that America hadn't taken me very deeply into her confidence, judging from the information they got, or failed to get, from me. At any rate, they gave me up as a bad job and I was ordered to the officers' prison at Courtrai, Belgium. V THE PRISON-CAMP AT COURTRAI From the Intelligence Department I was conveyed to the officers' prison-camp at Courtrai in an automobile. It was about an hour's ride. My escort was one of the most famous flyers in the world, barring none. He was later killed in action, but I was told by an English airman who witnessed his last combat that he fought a game battle and died a hero's death. The prison, which had evidently been a civil prison of some kind before the war, was located right in the heart of Courtrai. The first building we approached was large, and in front of the archway, which formed the main entrance, was a sentry box. Here we were challenged by the sentry, who knocked on the door; the guard turned the key in the lock and I was admitted. We passed through the archway and directly into a courtyard, on which faced all of the prison buildings, the windows, of course, being heavily barred. After I had given my pedigree--my name, age, address, etc.--I was shown to a cell with bars on the windows overlooking this courtyard. I was promptly told that at night we were to occupy these rooms, but I had already surveyed the surroundings, taken account of the number of guards and the locked door outside, and concluded that my chances of getting away from some other place could be no worse than in that particular cell. As I had no hat, my helmet being the only thing I wore over the lines, I was compelled either to go bareheaded or wear the red cap of the Bavarian whom I had shot down on that memorable day. It can be imagined how I looked attired in a British uniform and a bright red cap. Wherever I was taken, my outfit aroused considerable curiosity among the Belgians and German soldiers. When I arrived at prison that day I still wore this cap, and as I was taken into the courtyard, my overcoat covering my uniform, all that the British officers who happened to be sunning themselves in the courtyard could see was the red cap. They afterward told me they wondered who the "big Hun" was with the bandage on his mouth. This cap I managed to keep with me, but was never allowed to wear it on the walks we took. I either went bareheaded or borrowed a cap from some other prisoner. At certain hours each day the prisoners were allowed to mingle in the courtyard, and on the first occasion of this kind I found that there were eleven officers imprisoned there besides myself. They had here interpreters who could speak all languages. One of them was a mere boy who had been born in Jersey City, New Jersey, and had spent all his life in America until the beginning of 1914. Then he moved with his folks to Germany, and when he became of military age the Huns forced him into the army. I think if the truth were known he would much rather have been fighting for America than against her. I found that most of the prisoners remained at Courtrai only two or three days. From there they were invariably taken to prisons in the interior of Germany. Whether it was because I was an American or because I was a flier, I don't know, but this rule was not followed in my case. I remained there two weeks. During that period, Courtrai was constantly bombed by our airmen. Not a single day or night passed without one or more air raids. In the two weeks I was there I counted twenty-one of them. The town suffered a great deal of damage. Evidently our people were aware that the Germans had a lot of troops concentrated in this town, and, besides, the headquarters staff was stationed there. The Kaiser himself visited Courtrai while I was in the prison, I was told by one of the interpreters, but he didn't call on me and, for obvious reasons, I couldn't call on him. The courtyard was not a very popular place during air raids. Several times when our airmen raided that section in the daytime I went out and watched the machines and the shrapnel bursting all around; but the Germans did not crowd out there, for their own anti-aircraft guns were hammering away to keep our planes as high in the sky as possible, and shells were likely to fall in the prison yard any moment. Of course, I watched these battles at my own risk. Many nights from my prison window I watched with peculiar interest the air raids carried on, and it was a wonderful sight with the German searchlights playing on the sky, the "flaming onions" fired high and the burst of the anti-aircraft guns, but rather an uncomfortable sensation when I realized that perhaps the very next minute a bomb might be dropped on the building in which I was a prisoner. But perhaps all of this was better than no excitement at all, for prison life soon became very monotonous. One of the hardest things I had to endure throughout the two weeks I spent there was the sight of the Hun machines flying over Courtrai, knowing that perhaps I never would have another chance to fly, and I used to sit by the hour watching the German machines maneuvering over the prison, as they had an aerodrome not far away, and every afternoon the students--I took them for students because their flying was very poor--appeared over the town. One certain Hun seemed to find particular satisfaction in flying right down over the prison nightly, for my special discomfort and benefit it seemed, as if he knew an airman imprisoned there was vainly longing to try his wings again over their lines. But I used to console myself by saying, "Never mind, old boy; there was never a bird whose wings could not be clipped if they got him just right, and your turn will come some day." One night there was an exceptionally heavy air raid going on. A number of German officers came into my room, and they all seemed very much frightened. I jokingly remarked that it would be fine if our airmen hit the old prison--the percentage would be very satisfactory--one English officer and about ten German ones. They didn't seem to appreciate the joke, however, and, indeed, they were apparently too much alarmed at what was going on overhead to laugh even at their own jokes. Although these night raids seemed to take all the starch out of the Germans while they were going on, the officers were usually as brave as lions the next day and spoke contemptuously of the raid of the night before. I saw thousands of soldiers in Courtrai, and although they did not impress me as having very good or abundant food, they were fairly well clothed. I do not mean to imply that conditions pointed to an early end of the war. On the contrary, from what I was able to observe on that point, unless the Huns have an absolute crop failure, they can, in my opinion, go on for years! The idea of our being able to win the war by starving them out strikes me as ridiculous. This is a war that must be won by _fighting_, and the sooner we realize that fact the sooner it will be over. Rising-hour in the prison was seven o'clock. Breakfast came at eight. This consisted of a cup of coffee and nothing else. If the prisoner had the foresight to save some bread from the previous day, he had bread for breakfast also, but that never happened in my case. Sometimes we had two cups of coffee--that is, near-coffee. It was really chicory or some cereal preparation. We had no milk or sugar. For lunch they gave us boiled sugar-beets or some other vegetable, and once in a while some kind of pickled meat, but that happened very seldom. We also received a third of a loaf of bread--war-bread. This war-bread was as heavy as a brick, black, and sour. It was supposed to last us from noon one day to noon the next. Except for some soup, this was the whole lunch menu. Dinner came at 5.30 P.M., when we sometimes had a little jam made out of sugar-beets, and a preparation called tea which you had to shake vigorously or it settled in the bottom of the cup and then about all you had was hot water. This "tea" was a sad blow to the Englishmen. If it hadn't been called tea, they wouldn't have felt so badly about it, perhaps, but it was adding insult to injury to call that stuff "tea" which, with them, is almost a national institution. Sometimes with this meal they gave us butter instead of jam, and once in a while we had some kind of canned meat. This comprised the usual run of eatables for the day--I can eat more than that for breakfast! In the days that were to come, however, I was to fare considerably worse. [Illustration: MAILING-CARD SENT BY GERMAN GOVERNMENT TO PAT O'BRIEN'S SISTER, MRS. CLARA CLEGG OF MOMENCE, ILLINOIS] [Illustration: OBVERSE SIDE OF CARD SHOWN ABOVE] We were allowed to send out and buy a few things, but as most of the prisoners were without funds, this was but an empty privilege. Once I took advantage of the privilege to send my shoes to a Belgian shoemaker to be half-soled. They charged me twenty marks--five dollars! Once in a while a Belgian Ladies' Relief Society visited the prison and brought us handkerchiefs, American soap--which sells at about one dollar and fifty cents a bar in Belgium--tooth-brushes, and other little articles, all of which were American-made, but whether they were supplied by the American Relief Committee or not I don't know. At any rate, these gifts were mighty useful and were very much appreciated. One day I offered a button off my uniform to one of these Belgian ladies as a souvenir, but a German guard saw me and I was never allowed to go near the visitors afterward. The sanitary conditions in this prison-camp were excellent as a general proposition. One night, however, I discovered that I had been captured by "cooties." This was a novel experience to me and one that I would have been very willing to have missed, because in the Flying Corps our aerodromes are a number of miles back of the lines and we have good billets, and our acquaintance with such things as "cooties" and other unwelcome visitors is very limited. When I discovered my condition I made a holler and roused the guard, and right then I got another example of German efficiency. This guard seemed to be even more perturbed about my complaint than I was myself, evidently fearing that he would be blamed for my condition. The commandant was summoned, and I could see that he was very angry. Some one undoubtedly got a severe reprimand for it. I was taken out of my cell by a guard with a rifle and conducted about a quarter of a mile from the prison to an old factory building which had been converted into an elaborate fumigating plant. There I was given a pickle bath in some kind of solution, and while I was absorbing it my clothes, bedclothes, and whatever else had been in my cell were being put through another fumigating process. While I was waiting for my things to dry--it took, perhaps, half an hour--I had a chance to observe about one hundred other victims of "cooties"--German soldiers who had become infested in the trenches. We were all nude, of course, but apparently it was not difficult for them to recognize me as a foreigner even without my uniform on, for none of them made any attempt to talk to me, although they all were very busy talking _about_ me. I could not understand what they were saying, but I know I was the butt of most of their jokes, and they made no effort to conceal the fact that I was the subject of their conversation. When I got back to my cell I found that it had been thoroughly fumigated, and from that time on I had no further trouble with "cooties" or other visitors of the same kind. As we were not allowed to write anything but prison cards, writing was out of the question; and as we had no reading-matter to speak of, reading was nil. We had nothing to do to pass away the time, so consequently cards became our only diversion, for we did, fortunately, have some of those. There wasn't very much money, as a rule, in circulation, and I think for once in my life I held most of that, not due to any particular ability on my part in the game, but I happened to have several hundred francs in my pockets when shot down. But we held a lottery there once a day, and I don't believe there was ever another lottery held that was watched with quite such intense interest as that. The drawing was always held the day before the prize was to be awarded, so we always knew the day before who was the lucky man. There was as much speculation as to who would win the prize as if it had been the finest treasure in the world. The great prize was one-third of a loaf of bread. Through some arrangement which I never quite figured out, it happened that among the eight or ten officers who were there with me there was always one-third of a loaf of bread over. There was just one way of getting that bread, and that was to draw lots. Consequently that was what started the lottery. I believe if a man had ever been inclined to cheat he would have been sorely tempted in this instance, but the game was played absolutely square, and if a man had been caught cheating, the chances are that he would have been shunned by the rest of the officers as long as he was in prison. I was fortunate enough to win the prize twice. One man--I think he was the smallest eater in the camp--won it on three successive days, but it was well for him that his luck deserted him on the fourth day, for he probably would have been handled rather roughly by the rest of the crowd, who were growing suspicious. But we handled the drawing ourselves and knew there was nothing crooked about it, so he was spared. We were allowed to buy pears, and, being small and very hard, they were used as the stakes in many a game. But the interest in these little games was as keen as if the stakes had been piles of money instead of two or three half-starved pears. No man was ever so reckless, however, in all the betting, as to wager his own rations. By the most scheming and sacrificing I ever did in my life I managed to hoard two pieces of bread (grudgingly spared at the time from my daily rations), but I was preparing for the day when I should escape--if I ever should. It was not a sacrifice easily made, either, but instead of eating bread I ate pears until I finally got one piece of bread ahead; and when I could force myself to stick to the pear diet again I saved the other piece from that day's allowance, and in days to come I had cause to credit myself fully for the foresight. Whenever a new prisoner came in and his German hosts had satisfied themselves as to his life history and taken down all the details--that is, all he would give them--he was immediately surrounded by his fellow-prisoners, who were eager for any bit of news or information he could possibly give them, and as a rule he was glad to tell us because, if he had been in the hands of the Huns for any length of time, he had seen very few English officers. The conditions of this prison were bad enough when a man was in normally good health, but it was barbarous to subject a wounded soldier to the hardships and discomforts of the place. However, this was the fate of a poor private we discovered there one day in terrific pain, suffering from shrapnel in his stomach and back. All of us officers asked to have him sent to a hospital, but the doctors curtly refused, saying it was against orders. So the poor creature went on suffering from day to day and was still there when I left, another victim of German cruelty. At one time in this prison-camp there were a French marine, a French flying officer, and two Belgian soldiers, and of the United Kingdom one from Canada, two from England, three from Ireland, a couple from Scotland, one from Wales, a man from South Africa, one from Algeria, and a New-Zealander, the last being from my own squadron, a man whom I thought had been killed, and he was equally surprised, when brought into the prison, to find me there. In addition there were a Chinaman and myself from the U. S. A. It was quite a cosmopolitan group, and as one typical Irishman said, "Sure, and we have every nation that's worth mentioning, including the darn Germans, with us whites." Of course, this was not translated to the Germans, nor was it even spoken in their hearing, or we probably would not have had quite so cosmopolitan a bunch. Each man in the prison was ready to uphold his native country in any argument that could possibly be started, and it goes without saying that I never took a back seat in any of them with my praise for America, with the Canadian and Chinaman chiming in on my side. But they were friendly arguments; we were all in the same boat and that was no place for quarreling. Every other morning, the weather allowing, we were taken to a large swimming-pool and were allowed to have a bath. There were two pools, one for the German officers and one for the men. Although we were officers, we had to use the pool occupied by the men. While we were in swimming a German guard with a rifle across his knees sat at each comer of the pool and watched us closely as we dressed and undressed. English interpreters accompanied us on all of these trips, so at no time could we talk without their knowing what was going on. Whenever we were taken out of the prison for any purpose they always paraded us through the most crowded streets--evidently to give the populace an idea that they were getting lots of prisoners. The German soldiers we passed on these

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